Dear Diary
by wordybirds
Summary: COMPLETE Increased tension among the prisoners prompts Hogan to find an unusual way to prevent a disastrous winter at Stalag 13. Please read and review.
1. 4 October 1944

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Text and originally characters copyright wordybirds. Thanks.

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"Ah, beautiful, more fuel for the stove!" Louis Le Beau held up one of the diaries that had come with the rest of the YMCA supplies delivered earlier in the day.

"Fantastic," agreed Peter Newkirk. The RAF Corporal picked another diary off the table and tossed it at the Frenchman. "Now we might get a decent meal, _and_ we won't freeze to death."

Colonel Robert Hogan watched the interaction amongst the men in Barracks Two with interest. He had already supervised the unpacking of the goodies from Geneva—sporting equipment, musical instruments, the usual edible delights and books in English for the camp library. Finally, he had personally brought the diaries to each of the barracks, and left his instructions.

As the senior POW officer in this enlisted man's prison camp, Hogan felt a keen sense of responsibility for the one thousand men here at Stalag 13, and lately, he had started to notice a distinct tension in the air—more than the usual anxiety that traveled daily with a man who was not at liberty to do as he pleased without the threat of being shot. Quite frankly, he admitted bitterly to himself, Hogan was unsure exactly what to do about it. The goodies from the YMCA would help distract the men, but there were interpersonal problems that were starting to be more than a mere murmur in the background. And the freezing weather that was keeping them all in close quarters wasn't helping.

There would have to be something else to get things back to some semblance of normalcy again. Hogan came into the room and picked up one of the journals. "You won't be tossing these on the fire, I'm afraid," he said, holding it up and turning so the men could all see his face. "I have other plans for them."

"What are you gonna do with them, Colonel?" asked Sergeant Andrew Carter from his bunk.

"_We_ are going to write in them, just as the YMCA intended us to." There was a collective and immediate uproar from the fourteen other men in the room. "All right, hold it, _hold it_!" Hogan called out. The room went quiet. Hogan frowned. "There's been an awful lot of infighting in this camp lately, and a lot of bad feelings starting to make life pretty uncomfortable around here. Now I want you to take these books and start putting your feelings in _there_, instead of jumping down each other's throats. I'm getting tired of sorting out your petty squabbles. Write it out, sort it out amongst yourselves, and if you can't do that, _then_ come to me and I'll knock some sense into you." He paused, and his eyes softened. "Look, we all hate this hole. We all know none of us is _really _free to go, and with winter closing in it's going to get worse. Let's work this out on our own. Otherwise the Nazis win. All right?"

A thoughtful silence ran through the room. Sergeant James Kinchloe stood up and took a book in his hand. "All right," he said, nodding at Hogan.

The Colonel gave a small smile.

Newkirk stood up. "I never did care for writing," he said with a yawn and a stretch. Hogan raised his chin, watching but saying nothing. Newkirk snatched another diary off the table. "But I'll give it a go. Might even write a best seller." He grinned. "But you'd better stay away from my book, mates," he warned the others. "There'll be some hot stuff in there and you might burn your 'ands!"

Hogan's smile grew larger. "And that's another thing," he said as one by one, men started collecting the diaries. "We all know we have some pretty important stuff happening in this barracks. If you want to write about any of those things, those books stay down in the tunnel. Got it?"

Sounds of agreement rippled through the room. "Are you gonna read these, Colonel?" Carter asked.

Hogan shook his head. "They're not mine to read, Carter. Your thoughts belong to you. Just keep them out of sight."

"What do you want us to write about, Colonel?" Le Beau asked, still frowning but holding onto his diary nonetheless.

"Whatever comes to mind, Louis. Just remember, this is a family war."

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Newkirk got a pencil from his footlocker, and stretched out on his bunk. Propped up on his elbows, the Englishman stared at the journal a few minutes before opening it.

_He's gone 'round the bend he has, expecting me to keep a diary like a bloomin' school girl. Never mind what I said to the others; that was just to keep up appearances, after all. Besides, it won't hurt the Colonel one bit to think I'm going along with this idea of his, never mind that I think it's proof he's flipped. "Write down your feelings. Blow off some steam that way instead of with each other." That's what he said, or something like that anyway. Right._

_I don't see how writing stuff down is going to help. I'll take a crack at it, even though he didn't exactly make it an order as such. _

Newkirk slowly opened the book and started writing.

_4 October 1944—_

_Another day in paradise, if your idea of paradise is cold food, cold showers and lying in your bunk shivering all night because you don't have enough blankets or enough wood for the stove or you've got the ruddy wind whistling through the crack in the wall right beside your head. That's not such a bad thing in the summer, but in winter, forget it._

_This will be my fifth winter stuck in a rotten POW camp. Four lousy, long years since I took a midnight swim in the North Sea and got fished out by the Krauts. That was probably the coldest I'd ever been in my life, and it doesn't seem like I've been able to get warm since._

_I reckon I'm as ready for it as I'm going to be. My overcoat is more patch than coat, but at least there are no holes left in it for now. I've been knitting socks all summer, still at it in fact, but it seems like there's always one of the others who needs a new pair worse than me, so I'll have to see if I can talk Carter into darning up some of mine soon. That shouldn't be hard, he's a soft touch. No, strike that. He's really an all right sort of chap, even if he **is** innocent as a newborn lamb._

_Look at the time. I noticed Colonel Hogan giving the old bent eye to the camp woodshed this morning, which means he's thinking of getting together a wood-cutting detail. I'd best go find something else to do, like trash patrol, before he gets the idea that I'm the ruddy Tin Woodsman and puts an axe into my hand._

_You know, if I make a few more entries in this thing while people are watching, I'll be able to convince the Colonel that I'm actually working on this bloody thing… and while I don't like deceiving the gov'nor, I'm quite prepared to give this up as a bad idea as soon as I can get away with it! And since we've all promised to keep our noses out of each other's books, no one will be the wiser… and no one will get their feelings hurt._

Newkirk closed the journal and put it and the pencil on the small shelf above his bunk that held a few of his personal items. Then he swung down from the bunk, put on his overcoat and cap, smiled and walked out of the barracks.

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Hogan sat staring at the blank page before him for a full three minutes before he even considered writing. What could he say that would make any sense? And why had he told his men to do this exercise in the first place? With a sigh, he picked a sharp pencil out of the holder on his desk.

_October 4, 1944—_

_I ordered the men to start writing in these YMCA diaries. My original intention was to give them something to do besides killing each other, but I'm hoping it gives them a little bit of purpose in their seemingly meaningless existence at present. Life in a POW camp can be pretty stressful, and I've noticed they're starting to lose patience with each other over little things. Writing things down might relieve some of that tension._

_I figured I'd better follow my own orders, too, so here I am, struggling for something to write about. I don't think my own short temper has much to do with the men here, but it sure has a lot to do with me. I think a lot about being out of this hole, and while that's natural for any man in prison, I'm worried it's getting in the way of what I'm supposed to be doing here. I know the men have caught me staring out into space more than once, and then I always see that look on their faces that says they're worried about whatever they might think I'm worried about. It's one of the hardest things about being here at Stalag 13. Everyone's allowed to be insecure, to be scared, to be depressed once in awhile. But not me. The men expect a top performance from me all the time, and I have to work like hell to make sure I deliver. That's part of being the role model, the commanding officer, the perfect poster boy. Quite frankly, sometimes I'd rather just stay curled up in my bunk all day, feeling sorry for myself._

_But it's not to be, and so here I am, writing in this diary and hoping my men don't stuff their own books down each other's throats before too long. It's going to be a harsh winter. The cold is already here; I can hear it in the wind whistling through the cracks in the barracks walls late at night when I should be asleep. I can feel it pushing through my coat and making my fingers crack and bleed in a long roll call because my gloves have worn down and getting any new ones would be a feat to behold. I can see it—the men pull their frayed collars up around their necks and hunch their shoulders in the hopes of keeping some of the chill away. And it's only October. When the real winter comes, I have a feeling we're in for trouble. I'll have to make sure we start stockpiling wood early this year._

_Almost two years in this camp. It doesn't get easier. But I've learned the routine, and I follow it. I worry… will I be able to go back to who I was before the war?_

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_I never thought a lot about writing in a diary, but Colonel Hogan says he wants us to, so here I am. I guess he's right and a lot of us have been getting really short with each other, and this way we get to gripe without griping at somebody else._

_I'll start this right, I suppose, since this is the first page of my YMCA diary and you don't even know who I am. I'll tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Andrew Carter. I grew up a little of all over the place—Bullfrog, North Dakota, is where I learned the most about my Sioux Indian heritage. My Indian name is Little Deer That Runs Swift and Sure Through Forest. And then my folks decided to move to Muncie, Indiana. Not many forests there, I guess, so I went back to just being Andrew. I tell ya, it was really neat being able to play Cowboys and Indians as a kid and having a real stake in it!_

_Anyway, I'm a POW in a Stalag Luft about sixty miles from the North Sea near a town called Hammelburg. Now usually I'd like to go and explore the neighborhood I live near, but if I tried that here I'd get shot by the Germans. They sure are funny about people taking honest-to-goodness, innocent looks around._

_I live with a bunch of fellas in Barracks Two—boy, some of the best people you'd ever want to meet. My bunk is under Peter Newkirk's. He's English. He plays cards and does magic tricks, and all sorts of things you don't get to see in Muncie unless you pay to see it at the local club. He can be pretty loud and hotheaded, but he's really a nice guy, even if he doesn't wanna show you that he is._

_Next to us are Louis Le Beau and Kinch. Louis's French. He cooks really well but I've never heard of some of his creations and sometimes I wonder if he just makes it up as he goes along. For that matter, sometimes I think the same thing about the way he talks. Sometimes he starts talking so fast that I'm not sure it's even a language, just a bunch of sounds he strings together to make it sound like he knows what he's saying._

_Kinch is really James Kinchloe. He's a colored Sergeant, which is strange considering he's an American, and they weren't really supposed to be flying in the war when he was shot down. But I tell ya, I'm sure glad I came to Stalag 13 and got to meet him. He's a really nice guy. Quiet and strong, just like Uncle Walt used to be when I was growing up. You know, I don't know what the problem is with the US Government. I wouldn't have minded Kinch flying with me. Heck, I wouldn't mind him living next to me, either._

_And I mentioned Colonel Hogan but I haven't told you anything about him. I guess I don't really know much about him, except that he's a really great guy and I can't think of anyone who I'd rather have as my commanding officer. That might sound disloyal to the fellas I was with when I wasn't a POW, but honest, the Colonel's just about the best guy you'd ever want to know. He really cares about all of us, and there isn't a thing he wouldn't do to protect us and make sure we're all safe and looked after while we're here. _

_You know, if I hadn't been shot down, I'd have missed out on meeting some really special people. When this war is over, I guess that's something I'm going to have to be grateful for. And I wonder what I'm ever going to do without them in my life?_

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Kinch pulled his knees up to use as a writing slope, and, sitting hunched on his bunk with his back against the wall, he opened the diary he had picked up in front of Hogan, and started writing.

"_All right," I said. What an idiot I am. The Colonel asked us to start writing in these diaries because everybody's starting to get on everyone else's nerves, and I had to open my mouth and be the first to agree. Everyone was complaining, they might have convinced Colonel Hogan to abandon the idea, but I had to pipe up and say I'd do it. So now we're all doing it, and so I'd better get to it myself._

_It's the 4th of October, 1944, and I'm stuck in a POW camp in the middle of Nazi Germany. Anyone reading this will know me, so there's no point in going through the name, rank and serial number routine. I was shot down when I wasn't even supposed to be in the air. That's no military secret, so I won't have to hide this diary, but it was sure an experience I'll be happy not to relive, not even in this book._

_I don't know how to go about this, I'm pretty good at thinking things out but I haven't written in a diary before. Colonel Hogan wants us to do this so we get our bad feelings out. I don't really have any right now, aside from being a little hut-happy from being inside all the time with this weather. It gets downright claustrophobic after awhile. I'm used to cramped quarters, but fifteen men who'd rather be elsewhere all stuck together—this isn't a good thing in the best of circumstances. Sometimes I think the Colonel isn't sure what to do with us, either. He puts on a great show—it's not often that we see him with his guard down, even when things are bad—but it's got to get to him sometimes, too. I know he was a Bomb Group Commander, but even men in those positions sometimes have to doubt themselves, their orders, their ideas…. Of all the men I've met since coming to Germany, he's the one who fascinates me the most. There's a man no one gets to see, and I can't help but wonder who he is._

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_4th octobre, 1944_

_Before I came to Stalag 13, I had written in a diary to stop myself **du fait de perdre la raison**. When I got here and there were other things to occupy myself with, I abandoned it. Now Colonel Hogan says he wants us to use these YMCA diaries that have come into camp. At first I thought it was a bad idea, but I found my old book and realized how important it was to me to keep track of what had happened. I cannot promise I will make up for more than two years of silence, but **je promets** I will do my best to get it all down from now on. I know some of the others think it is silly—they think le Colonel is going stir crazy and is taking us with him. But as someone who used writing in a diary to stay alert and focused, I see it differently._

_**Vive le Colonel Hogan— et vive la France!**_


	2. 30 October 1944

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Text and original characters copyright wordybirds. Thanks.

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**Chapter Two**

**October 30, 1944**

Five shadows slipped through the darkness, moving quickly through the forest. The one in the lead stopped mid-step and dropped flat on the ground. The other four carefully moved up until they could join the first. Kinch looked over at Hogan to make sure he had the Colonel's attention. At Hogan's nod, Kinch held up his hand, opening and closing his fist twice to signal "ten," then pointed forward.

Hogan gestured for his men to move out, circling around to avoid the patrol. Before they could start moving, Carter reached out and touched the Colonel's leg. When Hogan looked over his shoulder, he saw the demolitions expert grinning as he held up a stick of dynamite. Carter pointed toward the oncoming German patrol, waved the fused explosive a bit and silently mouthed, "BOOM."

Hogan rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then he gestured his orders again more vehemently and pointed Carter in the direction he wanted him to go. Carter shrugged and stuck the dynamite back in his pack.

The men began creeping through the woods as they headed away from the patrol. A snapped twig cracked like a rifle shot, and a whispered French oath could be heard just before the Krauts opened fire. Five bodies hit the dirt as bullets whined over their heads, thudding into tree trunks and sending a shower of bark and leaves onto them. Newkirk and Carter lay huddled together behind an old log. Hogan and Le Beau were sheltered by the trunk of a large tree, and Kinch, who had been caught out in the open, was hugging the ground. Silence reigned for a few moments as the gunfire stopped, then the men could hear some of the Germans making their way into the woods.

Hogan gestured madly for Kinch to move to safety, looking wildly around for a way out. Kinch waited for a moment, then took a chance on making a break for the shelter of the trees. Listening for the approach of the patrol, Hogan gave the signal for the men to follow their pre-arranged plan in case of an emergency, then they split up and moved out.

Carter started running as ordered, then he reached around into his pack and pulled out the dynamite and a coil of fuse. He ducked behind a tree and set to work exchanging the short fuse already in place with a much longer one from the coil. After a quick look around showed him that the others had gone on ahead, he cleared a spot where he could safely put the stick of dynamite on the ground. Then Carter lit the fuse and took off.

An hour later they were all back in the tunnel. Hogan was still breathing hard from the run, but was looking each man over head to toe to make sure everyone had arrived home in one piece. Finally he laid a hand on Carter's shoulder. "Nice work, Carter," he said, nodding as he caught his breath.

"Yeah," Kinch added. "That little time delay bomb was a charmer."

Carter shrugged. "I thought we could use the head start."

Hogan nodded, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "You did good."

Newkirk frowned as he watched Le Beau move past the others without comment. He followed and reached over the Frenchman's head, placing a hand on the ladder so the shorter man couldn't climb up to the barracks above. "What's the matter, Louis? You okay?"

"It was my fault, Pierre." Le Beau spoke quietly and didn't look up at the Englishman. "I am the one that stepped on the twig and caused all the trouble."

"Come off it, mate. There's not one of us here who hasn't messed up something at one time or another." Newkirk took his hand off the ladder and put it gently on Le Beau's shoulder. "What matters is that we're all back safe and sound in the end."

"That's right," Carter piped up. "I mean look at how many times I've nearly gotten us in trouble with the—"

"Carter," Hogan said. Carter stopped. Hogan came up to Le Beau. "Newkirk's right. These things happen; it's part of the risk we take. We went out, we got the job done, we got back. We can't control the forest floor, and we can't guarantee there won't be patrols. We're fine. Now leave it at that. No one thinks any less of you—and neither should you."

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_30 octobre, 1944_

_Je suis un imbecile!_ _Out on a mission and I step on a twig and call les Boches down on us in seconds. How many times have we warned Carter about that kind of thing? How many times has le Colonel told us that a simple noise like that could spell death for us? And I do it! _

_Colonel Hogan was very good to me; he tried to assure me that accidents happen and that it is all part of the risk. And if someone else had done it I would have said the same. But it is me, and I am angry, and I should know better._

_And to top it off, now when I want to write in this, I will have to do it down in the tunnel because we promised le Colonel we would hide the books down there if we wrote about anything forbidden by the Germans! **Formidable!**_

_-----_ ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan sighed heavily as he pulled his diary out from its spot next to some secret maps hidden underneath his bunk. He had ordered the men to put their books in the tunnel if they wrote anything sensitive. But Hogan's office was already full of things that would be hazardous to his health if the Germans found them, and so he simply added his own diary to that list and locked it up with the others.

_Another close one tonight. This time it was a twig that nearly brought down the Krauts. It happens, and it's never intentional. But every time it does, I feel my heart splash down into my stomach and it takes me hours to calm down again. Louis did it this time—we all have. The nights are dark, the trail is hard to see or to gauge. He's kicking himself, and I tried to tell him it happens, but that won't make any difference to him, at least for awhile. I know how he feels, poor fella. _

_Carter was really the man of the hour—a time delayed bomb so we had time to get away from the bridge **and** the patrol before it went off. I couldn't ask for more. My men know what they're doing. And to think they all started off as plain old POWs. Heck, that's how I started, too. I try not to think back to that time. I know it would drive me crazy to think of how I got here, and what I was like when I did. Sometimes I just have to think how lucky I am that I ended up with the fellas that I have around me now. It could have so easily turned out differently…._

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_Y'know how I'm usually the one to mess things up? Well, tonight it wasn't me. I don't want to have to hide this diary, so I won't say what happened, but, boy, I sure know how the other fellas feel now that I'm the one who did the right thing and Louis's the one who made a mistake. I always thought the guys'd be mad at me. But if they felt anything like the way I feel toward Louis right now, then they weren't—they were feeling bad about how guilty I felt for messing things up! I guess I've gotta learn to get used to people not being mad at me for being naturally clumsy. It's real nice to have people who just accept me for who I am._


	3. 31 October 1944

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text and original characters Wordybirds, and may not be used without their express permission. Thanks.

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**Chapter Three**

**31 October 1944 **

Newkirk sat at the common room table, his diary open and a pencil in hand. The Englishman wasn't writing an entry, despite the fact that the pencil was moving smoothly over the page. Back and forth it went, pausing only occasionally as the man holding it stopped what he was doing to study the results.

Le Beau turned away from the stove he was cooking—and warming himself—at, and looked at his barracks-mate thoughtfully. "You know, if you want to look convincing, _mon ami_, you should take more breaks when you write. When people are writing from their thoughts, their rhythms are irregular."

Laying the pencil aside, Newkirk stretched out his hand and shrugged. "What do you mean by that, mate?"

Le Beau came and sat across from the Englishman. "I _mean_ you will never fool anyone who really writes in a diary that you are doing anything but moving your pencil across the page." He craned his neck and took a triumphant look at Newkirk's open book. Sure enough, a few scribbles but no actual words. He sat back as Newkirk almost defensively closed the diary. "And when you write from the heart, you rarely go back and check to see if what you have written is okay, because what you feel is always right, whether it is acceptable or not." A pause. "If you do not want to write in the diary, Pierre, why do you not just leave it alone?"

"I don't want to keep a diary, Louis." Newkirk pushed the book away and shook his head. "It makes me feel like I'm back in short pants again almost every time I open the ruddy thing. I kept a copybook when I was a lad, though." The Englishman's voice grew quiet. "Until it was taken from me and burned. Rather lost my taste for it after that. I only get _this_ bloody thing out now and then to humor the gov'nor."

Louis screwed up his face distastefully, then picked up Newkirk's abandoned book and started flicking through the pages. "You draw very well," he remarked casually. "Did you know that I kept a diary the entire time I was at the Dulag and at the Wetzlar camp?" he asked.

"Just a few scribbles now and then; nothing much to look at, really." Newkirk brushed aside the comment on his artwork and went on. "Why'd you do that? I can't think of a single thing I'd want to remember from back then."

Le Beau shrugged. "Call it self-preservation," he said. "Or… maybe I wanted the world to know that I was here, and to understand what it is that men went through, when I am no longer around to tell them myself. I certainly am not the first man to want to shout 'I was here!' from the mountaintop, when things looked their bleakest."

"Never really thought about it like that before, mate." Newkirk went quiet for several moments. "But who would be interested in reading about any of this after it's all done? Most folks'll probably find it strange that grown men would keep a journal anyway."

Le Beau laughed heartily. "Did Napoleon Bonaparte think no one would want to know about what happened before Waterloo? And do not all the kings and queens of England keep memoirs? What makes them any better than us? Who wants to know about all this, you ask? How else will anyone know what happened here, if the people who were here do not tell them?"

Le Beau finished his spirited outpouring, then tapped the book that he had put back on the table. "The YMCA has done a good thing, I think, Pierre. Being able to write out my thoughts when I was first captured was what kept me sane. My diary is the thing I treasured the most during that time. I would have guarded it with my life."

After a moment, Newkirk reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn coin, slowly running it through his fingers as he spoke. "I can understand that, Louis. I told myself jokes and sang every song I'd ever learned from the time I woke up to the time I went to bed. That either entertained the Jerries enough that they left me alone, or they thought I'd gone round the twist and wasn't worth bothering any more." A pause, and the coin stopped moving. "If they'd forced me to be quiet, I don't think I could have handled those first few weeks."

"Maybe they were _new_ jokes then," Louis said with a small smile. Newkirk smiled weakly back. "I am not making fun, Pierre. It is how you survived. We all did something different." He looked toward Hogan's closed door, and shook his head slowly. "I am just saying that when Colonel Hogan told us to use these diaries, I understood. When we are here in a prisoner of war camp, we are afraid to tell anyone how we feel, and we are in almost unreal circumstances here, _non_? We must be particularly careful about everything we say and do. But if we can write… some of the pressure is taken away."

Kinch had walked into the barracks in the middle of the Frenchman's explanation. He walked up to the table, nodding. "That's right," he agreed, looking from one man to the other. "Having said that, though, I didn't write anything about the other night—you know, about being caught out in the open like that." Le Beau raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Sure, it was scary. But if I put anything in that diary about it, I'd have to write in the tunnel—and I already spend half my life down there; no thanks!"

"Cor, mate! No arguin' with you there. I'm downstairs as much as you are, what with all the work on the Kraut uniforms I'm always doing, so I think I'll go along with you on not puttin' anything down on paper that shouldn't be seen by unfriendly eyes." Newkirk grinned at Kinch, but the smile faded as he turned back to Le Beau. "That does tend to toss a spanner in the works, though, as far as being able to write in the ruddy things the way the Colonel intended."

"I don't think it matters so much which _way_ we do it, as long as we do it." Le Beau paused. "And besides, I am writing in the tunnel now, thanks to my own mistake. But I do not mind. I can visit Kinch!"

Kinch smiled. "Are you expecting me to be down there all _that_ often, Louis?" he asked.

Le Beau shrugged. "Who knows?" he replied. He looked at Newkirk. "You see? It is not such a bad thing to write in a diary. You will have a lot of company!"

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Kinch sat at the radio, trying to stay awake while he waited for a call confirming that all had gone to plan in a rendezvous with the Underground. Letting out a huge yawn, he dug into his back pocket, where he had shoved his journal before descending the ladder to the tunnel below the barracks. He flattened the curled-up edges, grabbed a pencil from the desk, and moved over to the cot he had set up nearby.

_Figured I'd take a few minutes to write in this thing while I'm waiting for… something else to happen. I'm not about to write what that thing is, though, or according to the rules, I won't be able to write in this… where I want to. If I ever bother reading this again years from now, that might not even make sense. But right now, I don't want it to make sense to anyone but me._

_I walked in on an interesting conversation today. Louis and Newkirk were debating whether writing in a YMCA diary was worth doing—or even helpful. Turns out Louis wrote in a diary when he was at the Dulag and Wetzlar, so he's pretty keen on it. I didn't write anything when I was in those two places. No matter what Louis says about people needing to know what it was like from the people who were there, I won't be saying very much. Just like I know Colonel Hogan went through Hell before he came here, and he never talks about it. I wasn't real happy with my experiences either, and I'll always have them burned somewhere in my brain. But will I ever tell anyone else about them? That I can't answer. But I'm not writing it in a diary, at least not yet. Some things I'd rather forget about for awhile._

_You know, I wonder sometimes if that's part of what makes me and the Colonel work so well together. There's not a person who hasn't looked at Hogan a little funny at least once when we've been spotted deep in conversation somewhere in camp. Some day, an American officer spending time with a colored man isn't going to make people even bat an eye. But I can sense Colonel Hogan's moods pretty well, and I can tell when he's going all dark and sad inside. He tries hard to hide it—I think the man was born to hide his feelings, which makes him equally born to have an ulcer—but when he's feeling the pressure a little more than usual, I think he senses somehow that I understand, and we end up playing chess, or talking about nothing, or just having a cup of lousy coffee together. I don't push him, and I don't poke my nose in. I'm just there. And sometimes I think that's all he needs to get himself going again. So I'm happy to do that for him—the same way I know he's happy to be there for me, for all of us. And he has been, time and time again._

_Peter wasn't really writing in his diary at all. I think he planned to just make it look like he was and then let it go. Louis said he reminded Peter that England's royalty kept journals, and if they could do it, why couldn't Newkirk? Well, Newkirk's nothing if not proud of England's royalty—King and Country, and all that. So if diaries are good enough for them, maybe they'll be good enough for him._

_I just looked back and realized I've rambled my way through two full pages in this thing without thinking about it. I didn't intend to write anything I just wrote. Maybe what's good enough for King and Country is good enough for me, too._

_And there goes what I was waiting for. If nothing else, these books are good for passing time._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_Had an interesting chat this afternoon. I was mucking about with this book, and Louis caught me out. Even though I thought he was busy cooking, it seems he was paying more attention to things going on around him than I gave him credit for. That, or he knows me a bit too well, but no wonder there, as long as we've been stuck in this rotten hole together._

_Anyway, he took me to task about pretending to make an entry, and I'll admit I was surprised when he said he'd kept a diary before coming to Stalag 13—said it kept him sane. Surprised myself even more by talking about my time at Wetzlar, but he understood. Got a big heart, my little mate does._

_He made a good point about writing in here, though, and it was something I hadn't really thought much about. After the war is over, this book will probably wind up in the bottom of a trunk in an attic somewhere, and who knows, a grand-nephew or a grandson—if I should be fortunate enough to have children of my own some day—will read what's in it. I know that the things I've seen and done during this God-awful war have changed me, and not always for the better. This might be my only chance to explain how I became such a barmy old codger when all was said and done._

_That said, I'll try and write more often, but I can't promise to put down everything that goes on here. Some things just aren't meant to be known or remembered._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_It occurred to me today that I have mainly used a diary to discuss the terrible things that have happened to me since I was captured by les Boches. But I have left out the other side of this whole experience. And that is that I have some of the most wonderful friends I could ever imagine having. I told Newkirk today that I used to use my diary to stay sane. And that many men in the past have used them to simply make their mark in history—to tell the world that they were here. But I should also use mine to tell people that if I lived for 100 years, I would never find people to whom I could tell so very much and feel so very close. We live packed together like sardines, we are woken at all hours of the day and night to be counted, we risk our lives every day—something I can say now that I am stuck writing this in the tunnel anyway—and we have seen each other at our best and our worst._

_These are my brothers. And strange as it sounds, since I could not have met these men if the Krauts had not started causing trouble… there must be one thing which has come out of this war, which is worth cherishing._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_Hey, tonight turned out pretty good. It's Halloween, and if I was home, I'd be down at the Harvest Dance and the Costume Contest down at the old Methodist church. But I'm not home, I'm in a POW camp in the middle of Nazi Germany, so the Harvest Dance is a little hard to get to. But Newkirk made a jack o'lantern—we didn't have any pumpkins; he used a turnip!_

_It was a real celebration, though—I mean, considering that if we went outside too late we could get shot. There was real bread, and Louis made some great soup—we used the leftovers of the turnip, too. The only thing missing was real apple cider. Even Colonel Hogan came and listened while Kinch told some really scary ghost stories. I wish the turnip was big enough to keep a candle lit in the middle of it all night—some of those tales made the hair on the back of my neck stand up!_

_If we ever get out of here, I'm never gonna forget the scariest Halloween of all—with the best friends I could ever hope for. Even in a POW camp!_


	4. 3 November 1944

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text and original characters Wordybirds, and may not be used without their express permission. Thanks.

**----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----**

**Chapter Four**

**3 November 1944**

The door to the barracks swung open, and several men reacted loudly to the cold that blasted its way in along with the Sergeant of the Guard. "Colonel Hogan!" Schultz's voice was loud and urgent, despite his obvious breathlessness.

Hogan turned away from the stove where he had been warming up a cup of old coffee. "What is it, Schultz?" he asked, motioning for Olsen to shut the door.

"Kommandant Klink wants to see you right away in the infirmary. Corporal Fisher has been hurt."

Hogan's skeptical face changed to one of deep concern. "What happened, Schultz?"

"Some kind of accident with his razor. The Kommandant says it is very serious and he wants to see you _right now_."

Hogan practically dropped his cup on the table. He pulled up his collar and nodded quickly toward the others. He looked back at Schultz, ready to head out the door. "Let's go."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_I'm absolutely exhausted, but I can't close my eyes and I can't sleep. I've got a blistering headache and my mind is racing at a hundred miles per hour. Writing in this book isn't going to change anything, but maybe it will let me get a few things off my chest._

_Alan Fisher tried to kill himself today. Schultz came running into the barracks, said Klink wanted to see me, and that the kid had had some sort of accident with his razor. So I get to the infirmary and see Wilson hovering over him like a mother hen. That was no accident; you don't shave your wrists. He cut them open like a tin can. Thank God one of the other fellas found him before he bled to death._

_Klink had a thousand and one questions for me that I couldn't answer. We don't have a camp psychiatrist but I'm hoping a call to the Red Cross will get someone here to talk with Fisher and he might be able to make it through this war with some sort of sanity intact. I worry about him, and I'm scared he'll try it again if no one's watching. Should I have seen something, spent more time with him? The kid's only nineteen years old. I know he went through a bail out and capture, but there are thousands of us that went through that, and most of us haven't tried anything like that… not that it probably didn't cross the minds of at least half the men in camp, even fleetingly. But I can't help wondering, what would have made him try that kind of thing? And how do I stop him from trying again?_

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Newkirk came into the barracks, quickly closing the door to keep down both the heat loss and the complaints of his fellow prisoners. Not that it made much difference in the temperature, as the running joke was that it was colder inside the barracks than it was outside. The Englishman swung himself up onto his bunk without bothering to take off his overcoat, and as he lay staring at the wall, the spine of his YMCA journal caught his eye. Sighing softly, he pulled the book off the little shelf, opened it, and began to write.

_I just got back from checking in on Corporal Fisher. "Accident with his razor." That's what Schultz said when he fetched Colonel Hogan out of here a few hours ago. "Accident" my eye: even though Wilson's not talking, it doesn't take a ruddy genius to see the heavy bandages around the lad's wrists and not put two and two together._

_Why? Why'd he try to take his own life that way? He's only eighteen or nineteen, for God's sake, and he's got his whole life ahead of him. This war isn't going to last forever. The Krauts are being pushed back on all fronts, and it's just a matter of time now._

_I remember when Fisher arrived, in fact, I was the one who checked him out. He was so clean he practically squeaked when I frisked him. After he got the "welcome speech" from Hogan, we chatted a few times, and I recall him saying he was from Texas. He thought it was pretty funny when I asked him if he was a cowboy like I'd seen in the cinema. Turns out he really **was **a cowboy, and we both got a good laugh out of it. Never spoke much with him afterwards. I suppose that comes from being in different barracks and all._

_What scares me is that I wasn't too much older than he is when I was shot down. It could have been me lying in some prison camp infirmary with a mile of gauze wrapped round my wrists. It could have so easily been me._

Newkirk closed the journal and replaced it on the shelf over his bed. Collar turned up against the cold, he lay staring at the wall, waiting for the darkness of sleep to claim him.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_I'm not sure what to say here, but for some reason I really have to say something. I mean, I always thought that the best way to get through something like being a POW in the middle of a war was to keep busy and stay positive. But some people sure don't think that way._

_Today one of the new prisoners, Alan Fisher, tried to kill himself. I mean he's not "new" new, we've had him for a little while, but he's new compared to some of the rest of us—especially people like Louis and Newkirk, who seem to have been here forever. But Alan—well, gee, I always thought he was pretty okay. I mean he was a bit shy, but I thought that was just, y'know, being nervous about being in a prisoner of war camp for the first time. But I know Colonel Hogan tried to have a few talks with him, and I've seen him around the camp with Newkirk. And I talked to him a few times, too. He's a nice fella. From Texas._

_When Schultz called Colonel Hogan out of the barracks today, everyone got really scared. And when the Colonel came back, he was white as a sheet, and he wouldn't talk to anyone. Later on we found out what really happened. I went over to the infirmary to try and talk to Alan- we used to have some really long talks, when he was in the mood. Or maybe I just ramble. In any case, Wilson our medic told me he was asleep, and that he'd tell Alan I came by, in case he wanted to talk._

_I'm beginning to wonder if I have the odd-man-out attitude toward this place. I mean people sometimes think I'm a bit scattered, and I don't mind that—they just don't understand that I cope best with a smile on my face. I mean, I was as scared as anybody when I got shot down, but it all turned out okay. I mean, not "okay" okay; I'm still a prisoner. But I couldn't ask to be with a better bunch of fellas than the ones I'm with now. And no one could look after us as well as Colonel Hogan does. But some people, y'know, like Alan, I guess don't know that yet. I sure hope he gives us all a chance to show him, because I'd be real upset if he tried it again. And it wouldn't do him any good, either._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Le Beau put away the last of his pots and, with a dissatisfied scowl on his face, looked back at the stove. He walked over and rubbed a speck of dirt off it, pulling his hand back quickly with a French oath as the still-hot stove burned his fingertips. Turning his back on it, he released the catch to the tunnel and headed downstairs.

_3 novembre, 1944_

_I am in a foul mood. At least I know I am not alone. But today I saw just one more example of how les Boches are making a mess of this world. There is a very young Corporal in camp, un enfant, Alan Fisher. Today he nearly succeeded in taking his own life. It was not bad enough that they had to shoot him out of the sky and put him in a prisoner of war camp. They had to take the last shred of dignity and hope that he had and totally crush it until he felt he had no choice but to end his life._

_I know people sometimes say that a man who tries to kill himself is weak, and that it is selfish, and it makes me angry. I wonder if anyone who says that has had to live like a caged animal with rifles pointed at them all the time. Somehow I doubt it. But now it is me who is feeling selfish, for not having spent more time with him before this happened. I just did not have time. Or maybe I did not make time. Or maybe I am angry at myself for having to be here and know about it, and it is the Boches to blame. It does not matter, I suppose, who is at fault: Fisher still did what he did, and none of us saw it coming. And that makes me wonder—am I really seeing anything here as it really is? Or am I only seeing what I want to see? And is that how I have learned to survive—by ignoring those around me? Is that human? Or inhumane? I know I have done that before… before I was sent here to Stalag 13. What have I become?_

Then, frowning deeper and deeper, Le Beau hurriedly closed his book and shoved it forcefully back into his hiding place. Then he went back up to the barracks, climbed onto his own bunk, and, slamming his head on the pillow, stared blindly at the ceiling.


	5. 10 November 1944

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text and original characters Wordybirds, and may not be used without their express permission. Thanks.

**----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----**

**Chapter Five**

**10 November 1944**

The men shrank deeper into their thin coats as they stood in the building wind at morning roll call. Fists shoved under his armpits, Hogan turned his lowered head occasionally to the men around him, nodding in encouragement as they stamped their feet and jogged in place, waiting for the word that they could go back into the relative warmth of the barracks.

Finally, the door to the Kommandant's office opened, and Colonel Wilhelm Klink, wearing his long, fur-lined overcoat, strolled out to stand before the assembled men. "Good morning, gentlemen!" he practically sang. "Lovely brisk weather we're having, isn't it?"

"What's so good about it?" Hogan asked, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "The men are freezing, there isn't enough hot water, and the food lately… well, that's against the Geneva Convention."

"Right. You lot could've won the Battle of Britain had you dropped yesterday's supper on London." Newkirk turned enough to put his back to the wind and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets to keep them warm.

Le Beau laughed and clapped his hands together. "_Oui_, and what your cooks do to food should be against the law anywhere in the civilized world!"

"Yeah, even the hogs on my uncle's farm would turn up their noses at it." Carter grinned as Schultz began making shushing noises at the men.

"Sorry, Schultz, but it's the truth." Kinch rubbed his hands together, blowing on them in an effort to stay warm. "We just call it like we see it."

"And it's not much to look at," came a voice from somewhere in the back of the line. Laughter rippled through the group.

"That's enough!" bellowed Klink over the noise. "Colonel Hogan, if your men are so unhappy with the food our staff works so hard to prepare for them, perhaps they would like to do without."

Hogan frowned and drew up his shoulders in an effort to warm his neck for a moment. "Much as my sense of taste would like me to accept your offer, Kommandant, I'm afraid we'll have to make the most of a bad situation and keep eating what you have to dole out. Maybe as a compromise you can let Le Beau give them some cooking lessons."

"_Ja, Herr_ Kommandant! What a wonderful idea!" Schultz's face broke into a wide grin. "Cockroach, could you teach them how to make those delicious potato pancakes the way you do? So light and fluffy they almost float off your plate!"

Klink turned sternly to the guard and said, "You'll be floating east to the Russian front if you don't stop the prisoners' insolence right now!" He looked back at Hogan. "And you, Colonel Hogan, will learn to accept what you have and be grateful for it. Every mouthful you eat takes food out of the mouths of our fine German soldiers."

Newkirk pulled his coat collar tighter around his neck and muttered, "I say we give it back so they can choke on their own poison and end the war that much faster."

Hogan let out a lopsided grin but out loud said only, "We're grateful, Colonel. Believe me, we're grateful." In a low voice only those around him could hear, he added, "We're grateful the rations are so small right now."

"Boys, please be quiet so we can get this over with." Schultz shook his head at the resulting laughter and began the head count once more. "It is too cold for any more monkey business."

"Colonel, are my men still allowed to go out on wood cutting detail today?" Hogan asked.

Klink looked at the sky before responding. "Yes, Colonel Hogan, I believe that would be a good idea. Schultz, see to the arrangements."

Hogan tilted his head. "You're being awfully big about this, Kommandant. What's the catch?"

"Must there always be a catch, Hogan?" Klink shook his head. "I try to do something nice for the prisoners, and you suspect my motives."

"That's only because your motives are so suspect."

Klink smiled smugly. "Ah, Hogan, one day you will learn to trust me. But for today, of course I will let your men go out to cut more firewood. And as long as they fill the truck that will hold the wood for the guards, then your men can have whatever is left over."

"Now hold on, Kommandant—"

"_Diiiiiisssss_-misssssed." Klink turned on his heel walked away. Hogan made a sound of disgust and turned back to the barracks.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_I should have known. Every day it gets just a little harder to let Klink get away with being so smug. The cold weather is coming, we need to get some firewood so the men in the barracks don't freeze to death, and what does Klink do? Well, Colonel Full-Of-Himself smiles and says of course the men can go out and cut some firewood—but they have to fill the guards' truck first, so the Germans can have plenty of firewood to keep themselves warm. And then whatever's left over, the prisoners can have. Those trucks are no small vehicles; by the time the work detail has cut enough wood to fill the truck, the boys will be too tired to do much for themselves. And if they don't push on and do more than they can actually handle, then all they've succeeded in doing is helping the Krauts._

_Klink can be as dumb as he wants to be, but sometimes, he's just too cunning. It's one of the reasons that no matter how dumb I want to believe he is, I always know better just long enough to never, ever take his stupidity for granted. One day, he may prove us all wrong._

_You know, in a perverse, warped kind of way, I almost hope he does—not if it poses danger to any of my men or the operation, of course—but when this is all over and it's safe. Because then it would make having had to kowtow to him more bearable. Because right now, it's one of the most humiliating, soul-destroying things I've ever had to do. But I'll keep doing it, if it means our boys get what they need… and the Nazis get their brass kicked right back through Europe. I just hope the Allies hurry it up, because otherwise, I might get arrested for murder!_

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan entered the barracks about an hour after the roll call and quickly closed the door behind him. "I need a few volunteers," he announced.

Newkirk lay on the bunk, eyes closed, not moving. Le Beau continued stirring the pot he was standing at, and Kinch continued looking at his book, only occasionally glancing up toward his commanding officer. Carter, however, spoke up almost enthusiastically. "What do you want us to do, Colonel?"

Hogan moved further into the room and held his face for a moment over the steaming pot. "I'm glad you asked, Carter," he said. "As you no doubt heard at roll call this morning, we need wood. And I need some volunteers to cut it." A small grimace that he couldn't hide. "I couldn't get Klink to change his conditions."

Newkirk still didn't move. Le Beau stirred the pot a little harder and pulled the spoon out quickly, forcing Hogan to pull back or be hit in the face with it. Kinch shook his head and set aside his book. Carter's face fell a bit, but he nodded. "Okay, Colonel, when do we start?"

"I'll meet my volunteers in half an hour at the front gate." Hogan leaned in close to the top bunk near the door where Newkirk had remained still. "That goes for you, too, Newkirk."

"I ruddy well don't recall volunteering... sir." Newkirk still didn't move, even though Hogan was speaking directly to him. "Besides, I'm already on trash detail."

Hogan moved to within an inch of Newkirk's ear. "I'll get someone less physically fit on trash duty. He who wants to use the wood, will help cut the wood." He turned to the others in the room. "Right?"

Le Beau and Kinch exchanged glances. Le Beau dropped the spoon back into the pot and shrugged, frowning. "Right," he said, sitting heavily at the table.

Kinch nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, right, Colonel." He stood up. "I volunteer."

Hogan nodded, smiling. "That's more like it. There'll be a good dozen men out there today. And another dozen out there tomorrow. We all take our turns."

Newkirk hauled himself out of bed, muttered something under his breath that even Hogan couldn't quite hear, and settled his cap on his head. "When you put it that way, sir, 'ow can I refuse?"

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_I'm tired and my muscles are sore and I really feel like turning in for the night, but I can't yet because I'm still so mad about today._

_Colonel Hogan managed to get us assigned to a work detail to cut some trees for firewood because it's been so cold, and winter's not far off—and Klink actually agreed. But only after he made the Colonel accept that we'd have to fill the guards' truck with wood first, and then get some for ourselves. Well, that was gonna be hard yards, because the work is hard and all the men aren't in the absolute best shape to be doing that kind of work, not long enough to get the guards a truck full of wood and then us. _

_So what happened? Hogan joined in with us instead of doing the general supervising, and he must have done twice as much work as any man—and the reason I'm mad is I know why. He would have felt angry—and guilty—that he had to agree to it for the prisoners to get extra firewood, and he tried to make up for it by having us do as little as possible, if he could only do so much more. And so he grabbed hold of an axe and started in with such fierceness that I thought he'd cut down a tree with one swing. _

_I thought sure he'd slow down after awhile, but he continued at the same pace for about two hours. He was dead tired when we all got back on the truck to come back to camp, but I could still see he was gauging whether we had enough wood to make it through for awhile, and checking to see if the rest of us were okay. Louis was the only one of us bold enough when we got back to the barracks to speak up and practically force the Colonel into bed. I could tell Hogan was exhausted; he didn't even protest._

_If only the Colonel really understood how much he already does for us, he might not feel obligated to push himself so hard. But then, knowing him, he might anyway—_

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Hey, Louis, would you stop that banging? It's getting so a fella can't hear himself think!" Kinch practically snapped his pencil in two before shoving it inside his diary.

Le Beau turned away from the soup that he was stirring in the pot on the stove of the common room and glared at Kinch. "You think it is easy to make something that will suit the tastes of people like you and Newkirk without making some kind of a racket? I would think you would be used to it in all the greasy diners you would have eaten in at home!"

Carter looked up from his job as yarn-holder for Newkirk, who was busy making a ball of the wool he had gotten hold of from a contact in Hammelburg, and said, "Gee, Kinch, it's not so noisy up here." He smiled, a look of pure innocence on his face. "Hey, it's not so loud in the tunnel—why don't you go down there for awhile if Louis's bothering you? I mean it's not like he can move the stove down there."

"That's the problem," Kinch practically growled back. "It's about fifteen degrees colder down there; I'd rather be up here. _If it was quiet!_"

Newkirk rolled his eyes, then glared at Carter. "Not so noisy, is it? What about you an' that ruddy incessant humming you're doing?" He shook his head and gave the yarn a good tug to free more of it from Carter's hands. "It's not likely to get quiet in _here_ unless you give Lily bloody Marlene a rest for a while!"

"Hey, what's wrong with the way I sing?" Carter demanded.

"You're _not_ singing is what's ruddy well wrong with the way you sing, mate! You're humming. Not only that, you're humming the same bloody song over and over and over again!" Newkirk gave the yarn another tug, but this time he pulled so much off that it instantly became tangled. "And now look what you made me do!"

"So who are you, Glenn Miller?" Carter retorted.

"Glenn Miller doesn't _sing_, you idiot; he's an orchestra leader!"

"And besides, they say that _Monsieur_ Miller is a polite, soft-spoken man." Le Beau gave Newkirk a look of disgust and turned back to the stove, quickly stirring the contents of the pot before slamming the lid onto it.

"Hey, lay off of Newkirk," Kinch stepped in. "Carter's humming gets a bit much for all of us once in awhile. That constant Mary Sunshine in the middle of this freezing cold weather—it's enough to drive anyone crazy." He shook his head. "And besides, you wouldn't want the knit-wit there to get mixed up counting his knits and his purls."

Newkirk tossed the yarn onto the table and stood up. "Oh that's right funny there, Kinch. Right funny. So tell me, what third-rate music hall did you get that line out of?"

Kinch slammed his hands down onto the table and came to stand tall over Newkirk. "If you've got something to tell me, Newkirk, then say it to my face. What are you insinuating?"

"_Insinuatin_'? Just exactly what do you _think_ I'm _insinuatin_' here?" Newkirk put his hands on his hips and fixed the American with an angry stare. "Well, go on then. Let's hear it."

Carter jumped up and tried to move himself in between the two, who were dangerously close to each other. "Hey—hey, fellas, I think we need to just calm down for a minute, huh?" he started. "I mean, we never talk to each other like th—"

"Stay out of it, Andrew," Kinch said, never taking his eyes off Newkirk. "This is between him and me."

"Right. Shove off, Carter, before you get hurt."

"You think you're really strong enough, Newkirk?" Kinch asked.

"Strong enough for what?"

A sudden voice from behind them froze all the men in place. Le Beau and Carter looked over to see Hogan emerging from his quarters, his robe tied tightly around him, his hair looking slightly tousled from sleep. The ruckus in the barracks had obviously woken him up. He came all the way into the common room, stopping right next to where Kinch and Newkirk had faced off. He looked from one staring man to the other. "Strong enough for what?" he repeated. "What's going on out here?" No one answered. "Newkirk?" Not a look in his direction. "Kinch?" The American only blinked. Hogan's eyes flew to the others. "Carter?"

Carter looked at Hogan, swallowed hard, and looked away, shuffling his feet nervously even though he kept his silence. Hogan raised an eyebrow and let out a breath, then straightened. "Look, I want an answer. You can cut the tension in here with a knife. What's going on?"

Finally Kinch broke eye contact with Newkirk and moved away slowly, grabbing his diary and heading for his bunk. "Nothing, Colonel. We just didn't see eye to eye there for a minute."

Hogan looked from Kinch to Newkirk and back again. "I can see that," he said, letting the silence hang in the air. Hogan's voice signaled a general call to the all men in the small hut. "Okay, fellas, listen up. It's going to be a long, hard winter, and if we start infighting, we're never gonna make it to spring. This kind of tension is just what the Nazis want. If they can break us, they win. And I didn't come all this way just to let a bit of cold weather destroy what we've accomplished." Hogan watched Newkirk and Kinch for a minute before adding, "Did _you_?"

Newkirk took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he shook his head. "Look, Kinch... mate... I didn't mean anything by what I said, right?"

Kinch shook his head and glanced at Hogan sheepishly. "Yeah, well, I stepped over the line, too." He came back around the table and held out his hand to Newkirk. "I'm sorry, man."

Newkirk smiled and took the hand in a firm grip, bringing his free hand up to rest on Kinch's shoulder. "So am I. Let's save it for the Krauts next time, shall we?"

Hogan nodded approvingly, and Carter grinned as the two shook hands. "Boy, that's a relief! I thought you two were really gonna go—" He caught Hogan's suspicious look out of the corner of his eye and closed his mouth quickly.

Kinch cleared his throat and turned to Le Beau over at the stove. "So what _are_ you making there, Louis?" he asked.

Le Beau smiled and took the lid off his pot. "A beautiful chicken soup with just a _touch_ of garlic and spices."

Kinch considered. "Why just a touch?"

"Because we are in a prison camp in Germany—where do you expect me to get the condiments I need?"

Newkirk shook his head and smiled. "For that matter, where'd you get the chicken?"

Hogan laughed, and the men relaxed and got back to the business of surviving together.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_Boy, you know, sometimes I wonder if Colonel Hogan can see things before they happen. I just can't ever figure out how his timing is always so perfect. And it was just in time today—I was hoping he'd show up somehow, even though I know he was asleep. And he did._

_I guess I'd better explain myself—I'm not much better on paper than I am in person. Anyway, we all went out on a work detail to get firewood today, and everyone was pretty beat by the time we got back. For some reason Colonel Hogan insisted on chopping wood with us—I think he felt bad about us having to fill the Germans' truck first—and I never saw a man work so hard! Well, he was asleep on his feet when we got back to camp, so Louis pushed him to bed. Boy, the Colonel must have been tired because he never usually goes without a fight, at least not when the rest of us are still around. And Louis hadn't even made dinner!_

_Anyway, things started getting pretty hot around the barracks. Everyone started getting what my grandmother used to call "persnickety," and getting angry at each other for all sorts of things that on a normal day no one would really care about, at least they wouldn't admit it. And then Kinch and Newkirk really got mad and I got real quiet because I could see a showdown coming, and it wasn't going to be good._

_And right when I thought one of them might actually hit the other… out comes Colonel Hogan from his office. He asked everybody what was going on, and no one wanted to answer, me included. Finally Kinch said something about them not seeing eye to eye, and the Colonel reminded us that we need to stick together in the cold weather or the Krauts will have exactly the kinds of prisoners they keep telling everyone they have—you know, the kind with low morale and who are broken and really down. I mean everyone gets like that once in awhile, but we have a real reason for staying here and so it doesn't usually get quite as bad. But it did tonight, boy, and the Colonel knew it somehow—even though he'd been asleep!—and he stopped it as fast as he could. We're really lucky to have Colonel Hogan with us._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_I got angry at my friends tonight. I did not want to admit it, since it is why_ le Colonel _started us writing in these books in the first place. But he was right. We are all getting edgy and finally it showed._

_We had a wood-cutting detail today for the coming cold winter. Kommandant Klink was being _difficile_ and told_ le Colonel _that the prisoners could have whatever wood was left over after we filled the truck belonging to the guards. Colonel Hogan was angry, but he agreed. It is humiliating for him to have to bow down to that_ Boche cochon_. But he did it because he knows what the prisoners need to survive in these conditions, and he will do it. It is not right for a man like Colonel Hogan to have to be dishonored in front of a man like Klink. _

_Colonel Hogan was so upset about the conditions Klink set that he took on the work with us, instead of supervising as he is expected to do. He worked very, very hard and did not stop until it was time to return to camp. Poor Colonel, he was so tired when we got back. I insisted he go to bed, and for once he did not argue. I think it was the shame that finally wore him out; he tried to work it out by chopping the wood—but when you have to degrade yourself constantly, cutting down some trees will hardly make a difference._

En plus de cela_, everyone started arguing, and very quickly we were all very upset sans cause. I was arguing with Newkirk and Kinch, Carter was arguing with Newkirk, it was getting out of control. Pierre, of course, had the loudest mouth—but when Kinch gets angry you had better stay out of his way. He may be quiet, but he is just as dangerous in his silence as Pierre is in his shouting. _

_And then Colonel Hogan came out of his office. It is strange how just le Colonel's presence can draw us back into line. Everyone stopped, and he asked us what was happening, and soon it was all over. So much for the rest he needed. But I think seeing us make up did more good for him than all the wood-chopping in the world. But he is right… we need to be careful. What happened tonight does not bode well for the future, if we are not careful._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_Ruddy wood-cutting detail. I knew somehow that I wouldn't be getting out of it. I didn't volunteer, mind you, but true to form, the gov'nor got me off my bunk and out into the cold. Well everyone had a bad day, didn't they? The work was bloody hard and we were all feeling a little humiliated for the Colonel. After all, he's the one who has to make Klink feel like he's a great man all the time, and that wears even the strongest man down._

_Well this morning the Bald Eagle decided that if we were gonna get any wood, we had to fill the guards' truck first. Ruddy Kraut. For an idiot, he sure comes up with some real winners once in awhile. The Colonel was mad as a hornet's nest at that one, but he couldn't get the conditions changed, so out we went to cut wood for the bleedin' enemy and hoped we'd have enough strength left to get some for ourselves._

_Hogan worked right along side us today, cutting wood with a single-mindedness that makes me doubt his sanity. He didn't need to, you know; as senior POW all he's supposed to do is supervise. But he was so angry at the Krauts I think he needed to swing an axe for awhile, and if nothing else it wore him out so he didn't have the energy to stay mad._

_But the rest of us sure did, and that's where we nearly got into strife. Long day, cold night, Louis's cooking, Carter's helping with me wool, Kinch is writing in his diary. Carter's humming and Louis's pots are banging and Kinch asks him—well, complains at him, really—to stop. Then all hell breaks loose and before you know it, I'm practically shouting at Carter to stop his ever-loving humming, Kinch is angry with me and defending me, even Andrew's hair is standing on end, and you'd never know any of us are friends. We're arguing for the sake of arguing—picking on and defending the same people in the same breath. And then Kinch and I go almost to the point of no return—_

_And out comes Colonel Hogan from his room. You'd swear the man has an antenna on the top of his head. I was sure he was asleep, and all of a sudden he's in the room, checking up on us and asking us what's going on. He didn't have to ask; I'm sure he knew exactly what was happening. But it's one trick the gov'nor does well: if we have to admit that we were acting like right idiots, we're more likely to be ashamed of it, and less likely to continue, aren't we? Well, it worked for me: as soon as the Colonel started asking questions, I felt a real heel, and Kinch did, too. Neither of us meant anything; we were just stepping over the line because we were mad at other things. Funny thing is, I didn't realize how mad I was until I had something to fight. Must have been looking for something… and Kinch, too._


	6. 16 December 1944

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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Newkirk grinned as he stacked wood onto Le Beau's arms. "You got that there, mate? If I pile any more on, you'll be carrying a load that weighs more than _you_ do."

Le Beau repeated Newkirk's sentence mockingly. "Very funny, Newkirk. You just make sure you carry your share of the load as well."

"Wouldn't dream of shirking, little mate, wouldn't dream of it." Newkirk accepted his load from Hogan. "It's the only thing keeping me warm at the moment."

The first storm of the season had struck with a vengeance, dumping over two feet of snow on Stalag 13 overnight. Hogan had forced his way across the compound to Klink's office, and the two made a hurried deal so the necessary work of clearing paths between the various buildings could proceed. As soon as the woodshed had been dug out, some of the men traded off their shovels for carts to begin delivering extra wood to the barracks to ensure a good supply in case the storm got worse.

Hogan was putting a final piece of wood onto Newkirk's load when a loud groan sounded from the barracks. Both men wheeled around to look at the building in time to see the roof collapse from the weight of the snow. Newkirk stared in shock for a moment, then tossed his stack of wood aside as he lunged toward the barracks. "Louis! Louis! Hang on, mate! I'm comin' for ya!"

Hogan sprinted after him as everyone raced for the hut. He grabbed Newkirk by the back of his collar, nearly pulling him to the ground in an effort to stop him. "_No_, Newkirk, not yet!" He pulled the Englishman up against himself from behind and held fast against his struggling.

"Leave off, Colonel! I've gotta get him out of there!" Newkirk strained against the hold the American had on his coat to no avail. Unable to move forward, he twisted around and pushed at Hogan with both hands as he tried to get free.

Hogan held all the tighter, looking desperately toward the damaged building. "We'll get him out of there—in due time, now hold off; we've got to do it _right_! I don't want you creating more of a crisis than we already have!" He looked around to start organizing the rescue, all the while parrying with Newkirk's struggling hands.

Boards broke as more of the roof gave way, and the sound spurred Newkirk into an even greater frenzy. He managed to get one arm free, and drew back, his hand balling into a fist that he sent driving straight at Hogan's face.

Hogan saw the punch coming and pulled his head back in time to avoid much more than a stinging blow on his right ear. Physically dazed and clearly stunned by the action, he took hold of Newkirk's arm as it came down and yanked it, hard. "Newkirk, cut it out! We don't have time for time for this!"

"Louis doesn't have time for you to play God while he lies in there bleeding, either!" Newkirk shouted back.

Hogan staggered as if he'd been struck square in the face, barely noticing when Kinch and Carter closed in on them. He once again got Newkirk's arms pinned to his sides and pulled in close to the man's face. The Colonel's dark eyes bored into the Englishman with an anger and a coldness that his men had rarely seen, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then abruptly shook himself and shoved Newkirk back and out of his reach. "_Stay out of my way_," he hissed scathingly. Kinch put a strong hand on Newkirk's arm as if to stop him from taking another swing at Hogan.

Hogan looked around and saw Carter standing, wide-eyed and motionless. "Carter—go get some brooms and start pushing the snow off the rest of the roof. Sheffield, get some men together and get the part of the roof that's still standing propped up—we need support beams so the rest of it doesn't come crashing down on us. Barnes, get Wilson out here; we might need medical help in a hurry. Olsen, make sure the guards know what's happening here and get their help. We've got to get in there, and I mean _now_. But _no one_ goes in until I say—otherwise more of you could get trapped in there, and we'd have an even bigger disaster."

Hogan moved in very close to what used to be the front door of the barracks and leaned forward, straining to hear. "Louis!" he called. "Louis, can you hear me? If anyone can hear me, make some noise!" As if confirming his concerns, the remaining part of the roof shuddered and large chunks of debris came crashing down. Hogan stepped back quickly, raising an arm in front of his face in self-defense, then went to the doorway and called again.

Newkirk shook himself free of Kinch's hand and stood glaring at Hogan for a long moment until the shifting debris got his attention once again. He turned and made his way through the deep snow, circling around the collapsed building, seeking another way in. Once he got to the back of the barracks, Newkirk looked in through a window and could just see Le Beau's red beret lying on the floor next to the stove. The Englishman started to climb inside when a large clump of snow slid down, knocking him back and soaking him to the skin.

It was Schultz who restrained him as he started to try again. "No, Newkirk. Colonel Hogan is right. It is not safe yet."

Newkirk turned around to see the burly guard and pulled fruitlessly against his grip. "Let go, Schultz." Newkirk spoke quietly, and suddenly became perfectly still. "That's my little mate in there, and he needs my help."

"There are many friends in there, Newkirk," Schultz said. "Do not add another. We will all help, and we will be in soon. Come," he said, gently pulling Newkirk toward the other side of the building. "We need you to help clear the snow off the roof so we can go in. Langenscheidt and some of the prisoners are already putting in supporting beams. The Cockroach is fine; we will get him soon."

Newkirk allowed Schultz to bring him around to the front of the building again. As soon as the guard relaxed his grip, the Englishman pulled himself free and moved in to join the other men who were clearing what was left of the roof. He picked up a large board, not noticing it was once the sign that designated the building as "_Barracke_ 3", and used it to attack the snow that was keeping him from rescuing his friend.

Hogan was doing his part to prop up the building, and soon he surveyed the work and started calling out to the people inside the barracks again. Newkirk barreled in behind him, pushing Hogan out of the way and heading to where he had seen the beret. He grabbed the cap off the floor, absently stuffing it into his pocket as he crawled into the wreckage. Shoving some boards aside as he went, he kept going until he spotted the Frenchman's still form. "I've found him! He's right beside the table!"

Hogan was there in seconds. He searched Le Beau's face and watched his chest for signs that he was breathing, but he did not touch him. "I'll get the medic," Hogan said in a rough voice, and he turned and disappeared from sight.

Meanwhile, a few other men who had had the misfortune to be in the building at the time were picking their way out, some with help, some without, all dazed and covered with dust and debris, some bleeding, but none with an injury more serious than a broken arm. Newkirk carefully removed a small plank from on top of Le Beau's chest and cradled him gently as he half-carried and half-dragged him out of the rubble.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_The damned snow nearly cost us men today. We've been paying so much attention to making paths between the barracks so the men could get warm that I waited too long with the roofs. Last night we had over two feet of snow, and thanks to German building standards, the roof to Barracks Three caved in. Le Beau was inside delivering firewood for the stove. I saw the thing going down, and I nearly vomited. Newkirk, of course, hotheaded type that he is, started charging toward the building, and I had to stop him before the rest of the roof fell in on top of him. My thanks for that bit of bright thinking was a punch in the face. Thankfully he couldn't line the shot up properly or he'd have flattened me, but I can still feel my ear pulsing. I was lucky._

_When we got inside and I saw Louis on the floor, I wanted to pick him and run out of there with him. But I knew it wasn't a smart thing to do, in case he was badly injured, and besides, I think Newkirk would have used it as another opportunity to try and slug me, he was so upset with me. But it's my job to make sure **all** my men are safe, even if they don't want to be, and that includes Newkirk, in spite of himself. I'm sure he's lost all faith in me. I'm sure he thinks I just don't care about Le Beau as much as he does, or him, or any of the others for that matter. He accused me of playing God with Louis's life. I know he said it in anger and I should just forget about it, but God, that hurt a lot. A lot more than I thought it would. A lot more than it should have. It's just… well, I thought my men would know by now how important they are to me._

_**Damn** being the senior ranking officer! **DAMN** having to do all the right things! Didn't Newkirk have any idea that I wanted to go racing into that building, too? But I don't have the luxury of letting my heart run away with my head, and getting more men hurt wouldn't help Le Beau. In the end, Louis was fine, thank God. Just a couple of cuts and bruises, got knocked around a little bit, If he hadn't been, I don't think I could have lived with the guilt._

Hogan straightened up for a moment and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked at the long passage he had written, and added:

_Slow off the mark, I've ordered the rest of the barracks roofs to be wiped down every four hours if this snow continues. I can't take a chance on another accident like this because of my own negligence. It's not my job to be liked. It's a good thing, too, after today. So why do I feel like I've been punched in the gut?_

_----- -----_ ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Newkirk sat on a stool next the Frenchman's bunk, hunched over the journal balanced on his knees, pencil flying across the pages. The Englishman had taken his seat right after Sergeant Wilson had finished examining Le Beau and wasn't showing any sign of moving any time soon. Occasionally, Newkirk would pause and take a long look at the sleeping man before turning back to his writing, and each time, his pencil would start its rapid, jerking motions all over again.

_Bloody fine German craftsmanship nearly cost us some more lives today._

_After listening to the wind howl all night, we got up to find everything buried under about two and a half feet of snow. Good thing the barracks doors open inwards, else we might not have been able to get out. Once we did, the whole camp got involved in digging paths between the buildings just so nobody would wind up trapped somewhere. _

_Well, it didn't work, did it?_

_Some of us managed to dig across the compound to the woodshed, and just about that time, good old Colonel Hogan "volunteered" us to start hauling wood around the camp. The idea there was to stock extra wood in the barracks in case it started snowing again_.

_Fine. I could get behind that idea all right, as I helped cut a lot of it and I ruddy well don't want to freeze in my bunk for lack of wood in the hut._

_That'll be the last idea of his I'll get behind for a while. Louis had just carried a load into Barracks 3 when the roof caved in from all the snow lying on it. I'll never forget that awful moaning sound the hut made just before the spine of the roof broke and sent everything crashing down on top of my little mate._

_I'm all set to go get him out, and I'll be damned if Hogan doesn't grab me from behind and start going on about how it's not "safe" to go in yet. Too right it's not "safe" in there! It's not safe for Louis to be lying in there, hurt and maybe dying, and Hogan wants me to stand around and wait!_

_I **still** can't believe it! Hogan's got to be out of his mind if he thought for one second that was going to happen! I saw too damn many people die in London who could have been saved had someone gotten to them in time._

_I don't know what happened to me after that. I just saw red and I took a ruddy good swing at him. I'd have knocked him flat, only I couldn't get a good enough angle to work with and I was dying to. I'd have tried again, too, only Kinch bloody well thought he had to play bodyguard and tried to hold my arm down. Then Hogan goes off and starts ordering people around—Carter, get the broom; Sheffield, get the beams; someone get the medic—like no one else would have thought of all that. Man thinks he's a prince among thieves. Well I'm not having it. I wasn't going to let Louis lie in there bleeding to death while he played Officer of the Day._

_I would have strangled Hogan right there if I could have, but I couldn't so I went around to the back of the hut to find another way in, and sure enough, I could just see Louis's cap there on the floor. I was all set to go in when Schultz of all people grabs me. He may be big, and sometimes not too ruddy bright, but when he's got hold of you, you're not moving and that's that. He hauled me around to the front of the hut again, and soon as I could get loose, I started digging into the snow and the mess, figuring I'd make my own way in if I had to._

_Then finally! Finally His Highness decides it's okay to go inside. I was right on it and had to move him the hell out of the way to get in, and it didn't take long to find Louis. Thank God he'd been close enough to the big table that it kept most of the debris off him. I must have called out or something because don't you know it, Hogan shows up and tries to take charge again! If he'd have come one inch closer, I swear I'd have finished what I'd started before and laid the man out right there. He wants to bloody well be in charge of something, let him go back to what he was doing and leave taking care of my little mate to me._

_If Louis had died today... I'd have gone for Hogan and… **Damn** him for making me feel like this!_

_Every time I even start to think about how close I came to losing my friend, I get sick to my stomach and my hands start shaking all over again._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Kinch retreated into a corner, taking one final, fast look at Newkirk sitting next to Le Beau, who was resting on a lower bunk, and picked up his pencil and YMCA journal.

_Things are really bad here at the moment. I knew the weather and the close quarters were getting to everyone, but today just topped it. We had two and a half feet of snow between last night and this morning—beautiful stuff if it weren't for the fact that we're in a prison camp and stuck looking at the woods from behind barbed wire—and it caused big trouble today._

_A bunch of us were outside delivering some of that firewood Colonel Hogan had us cutting for the last month and a half so that no one got caught out if the storm continued. We'd all been so busy clearing paths that none of us thought about the roofs, and the roof to Barracks Three came crashing down. Louis and a few of the other fellas were in there. Newkirk wanted to go charging in right away, and the Colonel stopped him in case the roof hadn't finished falling—and it hadn't. I couldn't believe it when Newkirk turned around and took a swing at him so he could go in anyway. Hogan hung on, but it was tough, and Newkirk said a few nasty things to him that I could tell just threw the Colonel for a loop—something about playing God from what I could hear. I haven't seen the Colonel that mad for a long time, but he didn't say anything. They were both scared, no matter what kind of bravado they put up._

_Anyway, we got Louis out, and he's okay. Just a little knock on the head and a couple of minor cuts that because he's got this thing about blood, will seem a lot worse than they are. Newkirk is fuming in the corner, and there's no talking to him. Colonel Hogan is keeping everything inside, and since he came back to the barracks he hasn't talked to or looked at anyone. It can't be easy making the tough decisions, and people like Newkirk don't help. What was the Colonel supposed to do—let Newkirk get caught under the roof when it fell in again? When I see that pained look in his eyes, I just want to throttle Newkirk. He's got to be kidding if he thinks Hogan did the wrong thing. I've tried to draw the Colonel out a bit—I still think that's the only way to avoid a major stomach ulcer—but he's not having any part of it. And I don't think he will until he's convinced himself that what he did was right—or until Newkirk forgives him. Like he should need that mule-headed Englishman's forgiveness. Newkirk was wrong, just plain wrong, and now we're all paying the price. The Colonel most of all._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The men of Barracks Two came back from the mess hall and went quietly to their bunks. The collapse of Barracks Three and the fight between Colonel Hogan and Corporal Newkirk had left everyone in a somber mood. Kinch put a few pieces of wood into the stove as Carter took a covered plate over to Newkirk. He watched as the young Sergeant spoke quietly to the Englishman, who apparently had not moved from his place by Le Beau's side.

Newkirk's muttered response could only be heard by Carter, who shrugged a bit then sat down to clear the plate, despite having just eaten his own dinner less than ten minutes earlier. Even the sight of Carter's obvious enjoyment of the meal didn't bring a smile to the Englishman's face as he went back to writing in his journal.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_It's been an hour or so since Louis last woke up for a few minutes, and it's pretty quiet in the barracks right now. Reckon everyone's worried about Le Beau, as well they should be. Joe Wilson, our camp medic, said to let him rest, and the little guy should wake up on his own again, like he has been on and off through the afternoon. If that doesn't happen soon, I'm bringing Joe in here and keeping him here until Louis does come around._

_The other guys just got back from the mess hall. Carter was kind enough to bring me something to eat, bless him, but I just don't have what it takes to force what the Krauts call dinner down my throat right now. When I told him he could have it instead, his face lit up with that innocent little-kid look that just gets right to me. I often wonder if that's part of what it's like to be the "big brother" for a change, instead of always being the youngest. Anyway, I'm glad Andrew's able to eat that slop the Germans hand out, since he's such a thin fellow that a little extra on his plate won't hurt him a bit._

_Hold on, Hogan's just coming out of his room._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The eyes of thirteen men watched as the door to Hogan's quarters opened with a creak. Looking worn and downhearted, he glanced only fleetingly around the room before making his way over to Carter's bunk, which the Sergeant had relinquished so Le Beau could rest easily there and be looked after. It had not been a terribly bad experience, physically, for the Frenchman: a few cuts and bruises and a bump on the head. But the emotional impact the incident had had on the prisoners was still quite clear. They were quiet, almost withdrawn, leaving a heavy atmosphere in the barracks that sat like a physical presence in the room.

Hogan hesitated only slightly when he saw Newkirk sitting stiff-backed, staring at him, from Le Beau's bedside. But he moved in quietly, steadily, and stood near the sleeping man, his eyes only on Le Beau, watching his chest rise and fall rhythmically in slumber. He studied the small cut on Louis's cheek, looked for any undetected injuries, and started to lean forward, slowly extending his hand toward Le Beau's arm.

"Leave off. He's asleep." Newkirk's voice was quiet, but his tone was hard. The Englishman closed the journal he'd been writing in, carefully laying it aside before he even looked up at the American officer. "He's already had Wilson pokin' at him; he doesn't need anyone else doing it, too."

Hogan drew his hand back like he'd been burnt. For a moment his eyes registered an intense sadness, but when they met Newkirk's they grew dull again, and Hogan took a step back from the bunk, then turned away. "Let me know when…" he started. But he let his voice trail off and made a beeline back toward his office. "Make sure you call Wilson if he needs anything," he said. Then he disappeared behind the door.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Carter looked from Newkirk, to Le Beau, to Kinch, and finally to the closed office door behind which Hogan had disappeared over twenty minutes ago and had not come out. Worriedly, he dug his diary out from under his pillow.

_Boy, things sure are tense around here. Newkirk is really mad at the Colonel, and everyone is walking on egg shells._

_Today the roof to Barracks 3 caved in because of all the snow, and Louis was inside at the time. The Colonel didn't want anyone to go in after him until it was supported by beams in case it fell again, but Newkirk wasn't listening and he tried to go in anyway. Well, that was it, boy. The Colonel stopped him, and Newkirk punched him in the head! He was aiming for the Colonel's face, I think, but Colonel Hogan moved enough so it just caught him on the ear. Newkirk screamed something at Colonel Hogan, and Colonel Hogan just pushed Newkirk out of the way and got us moving on rescue detail. _

_I was so scared I couldn't move, but the Colonel knew just what to do, and when we finally got inside, it wasn't too bad. Louis was knocked out but it was just a minor concussion, and we got Joe Wilson to clean up a couple of cuts and things. The other guys in there weren't too bad off, either._

_I wish it was as easy to fix up Newkirk and the Colonel. Newkirk is sitting next to Louis like a magpie protecting its baby, and the Colonel seems too wary to even come out of his office. He came out once but what happened wasn't really nice so he disappeared again. If I know him, and I'm pretty sure I'm right about this, he's real mad at himself. And I know what Newkirk said and did hurt him. I mean, I understand Newkirk wanting to get into the building, but right after the Colonel stopped him, more of the roof fell in, and so he would have been hurt, too. Why can't he see that? _

_I wish I could talk to both of them. But one is too mad, and the other too sad. I hate to see everyone so angry at each other. Louis is okay, and that should be enough. Maybe we'll get some good news soon and everyone will forget about this. I know I'd like to._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_Okay, he's gone now. Hogan came over wanting to poke and prod at Louis, as if he hasn't had enough of that for one day already. Forget that. I told him to leave off, and he had the nerve to tell me to call for Wilson if Louis needed anything. As if I couldn't ruddy well figure that out for myself!_

_Hogan went back into his room, and things have been even quieter ever since. Far too quiet for there being fourteen blokes in the room, with thirteen of them being wide-awake._

_I just sat up a bit to get a kink out of my neck, and I caught sight of everyone carefully not looking in my direction, except when they do, they're giving me some pretty hard stares for some reason. It's enough to make me think that they're thinking I was too hard on Hogan or something just because I told him to let Louis get his rest._

_Are they right?_

_I still can't think clearly about what happened today. I try, and I find myself getting all wound up again._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Kinch watched as the door to the office opened and Hogan came out, his jacket open, his cap pressed hard on his head. With only the briefest glance toward the men, the Colonel grabbed a broom that was propped up against the sink and headed outside.

"Hey, Colonel, isn't it too late to be going out to clear the—?" Carter began, but Hogan was gone before he got to finish. He shook his head. "It's too dark now. And it's cold. He'll freeze out there."

"Let him be, Carter. He's clearing his head." Kinch turned back to his coffee and took a sip, then he breathed angrily through his nose and said evenly, "You got it wrong, Newkirk."

"What do you mean, I got it wrong?"

"I mean you got it wrong about Colonel Hogan. Man, you got it _all wrong_." Kinch shook his head. "Do you really believe that he cares more about being in charge than about Louis? Than about any of us?"

"He should have let me go in there right away and—"

"And watch the rest of the roof fall on you so we lose you, too? No, Peter, this time you pushed all the wrong buttons. You've hurt him bad, real bad."

"He'll get over it," Newkirk answered stubbornly. He looked at Le Beau resting quietly on the bunk nearby. "Just like Louis will get over being left in there while the Colonel took his time organizing his little rescue plans."

"_Took his time_?" Kinch exploded. "_Who else_ was going to make sure things got done safely? _You?_"

Newkirk was adamant. "How would _you_ feel, Kinch? How would you feel if it was _you_ stuck under that rubble and you knew your commanding officer was busy playing King of the Mountain?"

Kinch stood up abruptly, slamming his cup on the table. "You just don't _get_ it, do you?" he asked angrily. "Who's the one who waits up pacing when one of us is late coming back from a mission? Who's the one who cops the flak from London if everything doesn't go perfectly to plan? _Who's_ the one who takes on all the hard stuff so _we_ don't take any more risks than necessary? If Hogan had let you go in when you wanted to, the roof would have fallen on you, too, and then it would have been Louis _and_ you in there, along with everyone else who was trapped already! He was thinking of _all_ of us—_including you_!"

"He is right, Pierre." Newkirk turned at the unexpected quiet voice of the Frenchman behind him. "The Colonel did the right thing."

Newkirk came up beside Le Beau, who was sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "How are you, Louis?" he asked gently.

"I am fine, Pierre. But Kinch is right. If Colonel Hogan had let you run into the building, you might have been hurt, too. It would not have been right for him to let that happen."

"Do you know what you're saying, Louis?" Newkirk asked in astonishment. "You were stuck in there!"

"That's right," Le Beau replied. "And I am fine. And if I had not been, you getting hurt would not have helped me."

The fight finally went out of the Englishman, and he sat down next to Le Beau, shaking his head. "So what you're all saying is…" He looked toward the front door and trailed off. "Louis, I was really scared when that roof fell and you were in there."

Le Beau patted his friend's arm. "I know, _mon ami_," he answered. "Do not make it worse than it was, eh?"

"Thanks, little mate." Newkirk propped his elbows on his knees and sat with his face in his hands for several minutes. Finally he stood and looked at the others. "Kinch, you're right. I was way out of line out there today, and I'm sorry for that, and for what I said to you just now."

Kinch sighed heavily and sat down. "I know, Peter. You know, you're not the only one who worries about people around here. You just let your heart get the better of your head sometimes. And your _mouth_." He shook his head and laughed softly. "But I guess you wouldn't be you if you didn't."

Newkirk pulled his overcoat on, nodding as he did up the buttons. "I always _have_ run my mouth more than I should, and I don't always think before I speak. I've got someone else to apologize to now." He put on his cap and continued quietly, "If he'll have it, that is."

Newkirk looked around when he got outside the door but saw no one. He heard a gentle sweeping sound, and as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that Hogan had mounted a ladder in the snow and was brushing off the roof with the broom. In the pale light of the moon he could see Hogan's breath streaming out in front of him, disappearing into the night as quickly as it appeared.

For a moment Newkirk just watched the repetitive movements, listening to the swoosh of the snow and Hogan's grunts of exertion as he tried to reach the very peak of the roof. Eventually he moved closer to the ladder, and his head reached to just above Hogan's knee. Hogan didn't stop working, nor did he appear to notice he was being watched. Newkirk stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up. "You're working late up there, Colonel."

Hogan kept sweeping and did not acknowledge Newkirk's presence.

Newkirk waited uncomfortably, then tried again. "You know, if you make a nuisance of yourself after lights-out, the Krauts might try to shoot you."

Hogan grunted as he made a wide arc with the broom. "That might make some people very happy," he said matter-of-factly, still not looking away from his work.

Newkirk looked down. "I deserved that," he said quietly. "That and anything else you'd like to throw at me."

Hogan continued concentrating on his task. "If you get hit with something, you'll end up in the infirmary, and Joe has enough work on his hands right now." There was no humor in his voice.

"I'll save you the trouble of filing charges against me, sir, and just plead guilty to insubordination and striking a superior officer."

Hogan paused for a second. "There aren't going to be any charges," he said. "You don't crucify a man for caring about his friends." Then he resumed his work with vigor.

Newkirk bowed his head, letting his shoulders slump. "Like I did to you, sir. You don't deserve any of the things I said out there today. You were only doing what had to be done... only I couldn't see it. I don't think I wanted to at the time, either."

Hogan stopped again. He took in and let out a heavy breath. "Maybe," is all he said.

"No, Colonel Hogan. Not 'maybe.' The truth is, all I could think about was that Louis might be hurt, and there was no way I was gonna let him die all alone in some stupid bloody roof collapse. Not after everything he's done for me."

"You're a good friend, Newkirk," Hogan said, refusing to be drawn into a conversation that was clearly already causing him pain. He started sweeping again. "Louis would have known he could count on you." A clump of snow fell gracelessly to the ground at the urging of Hogan's broom.

Newkirk shook his head. "It's more than that, sir. I've... never talked about this with anyone, but something happened back before you, or even Kinch arrived here. I'd tried to escape, and I didn't make it very far before I got caught." He paused to take a deep breath before continuing. "I probably would have died from the beating I got if not for the help I got from a new man in the barracks. Even though it made him sick to the point of passing out, that man took care of me, and for that, I'll always be grateful."

Hogan took a minute before responding. "That sounds like Louis. He's a good man, Newkirk. Always has been." Hogan finally stopped and looked down at the Englishman. "Look, you don't have to go on apologizing. You did what you thought you had to do. Now go on back inside before you catch pneumonia; Louis's not recovered enough to spoon-feed you back to health." The lightness of Hogan's words was not matched by his tone of voice.

The Englishman turned and glanced up at the roof. "Looks like there's more work to be done out here, Colonel. How about you come down off that ladder and give me a turn, then we'll both go in?"

Hogan shook his head and turned back to the roof. "No, no. You go on in. Your friends will miss you. They need your unique bedtime stories to tuck them in."

"And what about you? What is it that _you_ need?"

Hogan didn't answer. Newkirk could tell that he was running a hundred answers through his head, but none were coming out of his mouth. Newkirk looked up, his grey-green eyes trying to meet Hogan's brown ones as he waited.

Finally, Hogan let out a long, weary breath. "I could use a ten-day pass." He leaned on the roof for a moment, looking tired beyond his years. "You know," he said at last, barely audibly, "just because I have to consider all the prisoners when there's a crisis, doesn't mean that I'm not thinking about that one man in trouble every second." He paused and closed his eyes. "If Louis had been badly hurt in there, it would have been even harder to live with myself than it is now." He opened his eyes and shook his head slowly, staring hard as though he were seeing the events of the day in the snow before him. "But I couldn't let it happen to anyone else, too." A long silence, then Hogan abruptly blinked himself back to the present and resumed brushing the roof with short, sharp strokes. "A man who has friends willing to throw caution to the wind to save him is a very lucky man, indeed."

Newkirk didn't say anything for a few minutes, and when he finally did speak, his voice was almost too soft to be heard. "That's what they call 'the price of command,' isn't it, sir? That you've got to put the good of everyone else ahead of your own needs and never mind what it does to your heart. I don't suppose you've ever given a tough order without it cutting into you in some way, but you manage it somehow and go on afterward anyway. It's what makes you a fine officer, Colonel, and an even better human being."

Newkirk sighed and stared into the darkness. "I've never had to walk in your shoes," he continued. "For me it's always been follow my heart—act first, suffer the consequences later. But that's because it's only ever been me who'd pay the price if I got it wrong. It's different for you. You have the whole lot of us to think about, _all_ the prisoners to look after. And it can't be easy. I shouldn't have said you were playing God. I was scared, and I wanted Louis out of that building, right or wrong. But you _were_ looking after him by making it safe first—_and_ after me. I shouldn't have doubted you. I'm sorry I did."

"You're not the only one with doubts, Newkirk. Every night I go to bed questioning everything I've said or done at least five times." Hogan shook his head. "But I don't think I'll have any answers until well after the war is over." Hogan stepped down from the ladder and let the broom fall softly at his feet. "I want to go home, Peter," he said almost wistfully, letting his eyes scan the compound, silent and white. "I don't want to be here any more."

"We'll get there, gov'nor," Newkirk answered, coming up to put an arm around Hogan's shoulders. Hogan offered a minute smile and stared at the fence. "Just don't give up being our Papa Bear till the word comes through. I'll do my best to obey your orders without laying you out—you have my word on it."

Hogan looked at Newkirk in mild surprise, then bent over to pick up the broom. "Just do your best," he said with just a touch of good-natured sarcasm. "Meanwhile, I'll have Kinch give me a few lessons on how to duck and weave, just in case."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan slid his diary carefully out from its hiding spot as the lights went out around the camp. He picked up a pencil and considered for a moment, emotions making it difficult to focus. Finally, he began:

_It's sorted out. Newkirk was always a good man._

Then, finding himself strangely unable to continue, he put the book away.


	7. 2 to 5 January 1945

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Newkirk sat at the table, idly running a silver coin through his fingers. When he caught Carter's almost child-like look of fascination, the Englishman smiled and sped up the movement of the coin until it was nearly a blur. He flicked his wrist, making the coin jump to his other hand where he ran it back and forth several times before it suddenly disappeared.

Carter laughed and clapped his hands. "That was great, Newkirk! Could you do another trick? Please?"

"I dunno, mate. That all depends on if you're gonna give me back my silver or not." Newkirk leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head as he waited for Carter's response.

"But I don't have it!" Carter spread his gloved hands wide, glancing at the other men in the barracks who had started to gather around the table to watch the show. "Honest, fellas, I don't have it!"

"You sure about that, mate? You're absolutely sure you don't have me coin?" Newkirk leaned forward and took hold of Carter's hand. Turning it palm side up, he slipped a couple of fingers inside the glove and pulled out the silver dollar, holding it up for his audience to see.

"How'd that get in there?" Carter gave Newkirk a baffled look as the watching men started laughing.

Kinch shook his head and laughed softly. "Carter, when are you going to learn that a good magician never reveals his secrets?"

Hogan looked over from the stove where he was pouring a cup of coffee. "He might not reveal them… but he might do the tricks again if we ask him nicely."

"What's that, Colonel?" The magician looked over at Hogan curiously. "Sure, I can do it again if you missed it. Maybe Carter'll learn not to try to take the coin this time."

Carter started to protest, but stopped when the others laughed again. Hogan shook his head and came up to the table. "I didn't miss it. And neither should the fellas in the other barracks. We need something to get our minds off this weather, gentlemen," Hogan said, propping a foot up on the bench. "Something to make the time pass a bit faster. I think a camp show would be just the thing to do it. If Newkirk the Magnificent would agree to be our Master of Ceremonies, I think we might just be able to pull it off."

After staring at Hogan for a moment, Newkirk grinned. "About time someone recognized my talents around here." He produced the silver dollar and began running it through his fingers again as he continued to look at the American officer. "I'll do it, on one condition."

Hogan crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What's that?" he asked, dropping his foot off the bench.

"I can get Theo Sheffield's band to join in, except they're short a man. Rodgers took a fall on some ice yesterday and sprained his wrist so he can't play. They're gonna need a drummer, and I know just who'll fit the bill."

Hogan raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "And who would that be?"

Newkirk gave Hogan his best innocent look, though it was spoiled by the grin still lurking on his face. "Oh, just this Yank Colonel I've heard pounding on the drums in the Rec Hall when he thought nobody was around."

Hogan shook his head. "It's a show for the men; you don't need me to get involved. There'll be other drummers out there somewhere."

"You're one of the men, too, gov'nor."

Hogan smiled ironically. "I thought officers weren't _like_ real people; don't you remember them teaching you that in Basic Training?"

"That's true. They taught us all kinds of things about officers, most of which ain't repeatable in polite company." Newkirk flipped the dollar into the air, caught it and put it away as the gathered men burst out laughing.

"When did you foul balls become 'polite company'?"

"You know, lads," the Englishman looked around the room, including everyone in what he was saying, "if I didn't know better, I'd say we've just been insulted. Of course, we all know that no _real_ officer would stoop that low, don't we?"

"Le Beau, have you been able to reach that shopkeeper who sells officer's pips really cheap?" Hogan asked.

Le Beau gave a start and then laughed. "_Mon Colonel_, you are causing trouble again."

Hogan's eyes twinkled "Yeah," he said with a grin. "Ain't it great?"

"So what you're sayin' is, you bought those bits of brass on the cheap then stuck them on your collar? If that's the case, I'd have to say we're gonna have to demote you to Private." Newkirk reached around and brushed an invisible speck of lint off his chevrons. "That means I outrank you, mate."

Hogan raised his chin and smiled, clearly enjoying the game. "And what is your first order, _Herr_ Corporal Newkirk, sir?"

"First off, I'm no ruddy officer so drop that 'sir' stuff. What do they teach you Yanks anyway?" Newkirk shook his head and did his best to keep the grin off his face, no easy task since Hogan's grin was practically lighting up the room. "Second, now that we've established that you really _are_ one of the guys, I don't reckon there's any reason for you not to play in the show, now is there?"

Hogan brought himself to complete attention and shot off a crisp, clean, perfect salute. "No, _sir_, absolutely not,_ sir_!" he barked. Then he relaxed, still smiling softly, and took another sip of his coffee. "I'll practice, already, I'll practice. Just be ready to emcee the show by Friday night."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Kinch settled down in his bunk, totally relaxed for the first time in weeks and completely unable to sleep despite the tiredness rippling through his body. He lay on his back, hands linked behind his head, then suddenly an idea came to mind and he hopped out of bed, opened the tunnel entrance, and headed downstairs. From behind the radio equipment he pulled his diary, and by the low light he was used to functioning in, he started writing.

_Newkirk's a hard fella to figure out. Sometimes he makes me so mad I think I'd like to strangle him. Other times, he does just the right thing and smoothes everything over. How can one person be so infuriating and so soothing at the same time?_

_Tonight we had the camp show that the Colonel talked about the other day. He wanted us to find another project to keep our minds off the weather. Things have been slow all over because of the snow and cold. Bombing raids are slowed, even London hasn't asked us to do much, which is a good thing because we've been pretty snowbound since that last big storm. Everyone showed off a bit of their talent. Louis sang and played the piano, Newkirk was emcee and magician, Carter sang and—well, tried to play the trumpet. Okay, to be fair it wasn't the best quality instrument in the world, but it was all we had, and besides, no one beats Carter when it comes to audience appreciation. I helped Louis sing and accompanied him on the upright bass we had in there, Theo Sheffield's band played—some really good stuff, too. And Colonel Hogan played the drums._

_Hogan didn't want to at first, but Newkirk told him he wouldn't emcee the show if the Colonel didn't agree. So of course Colonel Hogan caved in; he knew Newkirk would dig in his heels, and he didn't want us to miss out. Boy, I tell you, it was the best thing ever. I could actually see the Colonel relax the longer he was at that set of drums. He's been looking real worried and real tired lately, and when he was playing, all of that melted away and he looked well again._

_I think Colonel Hogan forgets the whole world when he's playing the drums. For awhile, he was just an ordinary man—not a commander, not a spy, not a shot-down pilot. Just a fella who loves playing the drums. Somehow, I think Newkirk knew that's what would happen. Maybe, instead of running a casino or a tailor shop when this place closes up, Peter should be a psychologist._

Kinch stopped as he realized what he had just written.

_What am I saying!_

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_5 janvier, 1945_

_C'est magnifique._ _Everything tonight was perfect, could not have been better if we were free. We had a camp show, an idea of Colonel Hogan's earlier this week that was meant to help us forget this lousy weather we are still having. I sang, Newkirk performed his magic tricks, Carter played instruments and Kinch was pulled up to sing as well. Oh, his voice, it is wonderful. He should use it more often, but alas, he does not. The Colonel played the drums… it was all like being in a cabaret in Paris. Everyone was relaxed. It could not have been a better night._

_Well, it could have. But that would have required having girls around. And even Colonel Hogan would have had a hard time pulling that off. Though it would not have been impossible!_

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_Boy, what a great time. We finally had that show I've been talking about all week—well, writing about—and I tell ya, it was great. Kinch has a great voice. He doesn't usually sing—I mean, I guess there isn't much to sing about in a prison camp—but when he does, boy, you listen. Nice and deep, and rich. Not like Louis Armstrong deep, but more like… oh I don't know, someone who you don't mind listening to for a long time. _

_Louis sang, of course, and played the piano. He's really talented like that. I sang a few Irving Berlin songs with the other fellas, and played the trumpet. And Newkirk did that great magic trick again that he did the other day when we were in the barracks and he pulled a coin out of my glove. He still hasn't explained why he's walking around with an American silver dollar instead of that English coin he used to bring out all the time. But when I've asked him, he kind of just shrugs at me and looks over at the Colonel. And then neither of them says anything. It must be a secret._

_Finally, Colonel Hogan played the drums. He was taking the place of one of the fellas in Theo Sheffield's camp band who couldn't play. He said he didn't want to, but Newkirk reminded him that he'd promised, and once he was up there, you couldn't get him down. He didn't show off or anything, he just kept the beat during everyone's songs, and he was so happy you could have sworn he forgot he was in a prison camp! Gee, it's a good thing he has ideas like this one every now and then, because even though what we do here is important, we all want to forget we're here once in awhile, even the Colonel._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

_A bloody good show tonight, mate. And I'd like to take all the credit for it, but I can't. I emceed it, but it wasn't my idea and I wasn't the only one up there onstage, either._

_Earlier this week, the Colonel saw me doing some magic with Andrew in the common room and suggested we put on a camp show. Good idea, really, as we've all been so down-in-the-mouth lately. You know, Christmas time without the family, stuck here in a ruddy POW camp—don't want to count what number I'm on now. And this year even Nan's fruit cake didn't get here in time. I expect either some Kraut is having a really good feed, or it's stuck somewhere between London and here—all the more rich and, shall we say, well, full of inebriating abilities by the time it makes it._

_Anyway, it was a good time. I convinced gov'nor to play the drums in Theo Sheffield's band. Told him Rodgers had slipped on the ice and hurt his wrist so he couldn't play. Nearly forgot to let Rodgers in on it—it was a really close call on Thursday when the Colonel walked by and Rodgers was outside building a snowman! I diverted Hogan quick enough, though, and from then on it stuck in my head to tell Rodgers to grab a sling from the medic and have it on whenever he thought the Colonel might be walking by!_

_It might sound underhanded and devious, and maybe it is, but I could see that winter and the war were taking just as much a toll on Colonel Hogan as any of the rest of us, and he was so anxious for us all to find an outlet, but wasn't planning on helping himself none. I don't know what it is about him, that he can help everyone but himself. Don't know if that's how they train officers in the States, but Hogan holds to it more than anyone I've ever met. I suppose if I took the time to think about it I'd probably realise it has to do with him being in charge of such a big operation here. The closer he gets to us, the more vulnerable he becomes, the more danger he can put us all in, if he's captured by the Krauts. But every man has a need for companionship, and the Colonel is no exception. He can only deny that for so long, before it really starts to eat him away inside._

_I'm sure he didn't mind the companionship of Hilda, the Kommandant's secretary, when I got him involved in one of my more complex magic tricks, and he found himself in a big wooden box… with just her for very tight company! He offered me a month's pay just to let the box get stuck shut for half an hour. The wily fox! I told him for a month of a Colonel's pay, the ruddy box could just as well stay shut the rest of the night._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan let out a long breath as he sat at his desk. He stared unseeing at the journal before him, then thoughtfully opened the book and began writing.

_The boys put on a great show tonight for the camp. With all the lousy weather we've been having, even after the holiday season—or maybe it's because of the holiday season—everyone's been kind of down, more than usual, that is, and the weather still isn't cooperating, so I thought it might be a good idea to put on a show._

_Brother, did they come through. Newkirk was the emcee, and he did his magic tricks that everyone is so fond of, Kinch and Le Beau sang, Carter sang a bit and Olsen did impressions—I really can't go into those here, not in a family journal! _

_Theo Sheffield's band played back-up for everyone's bits tonight, and because I'd promised Newkirk, I sat in on the drums. It felt good being around those instruments, having control of at least one thing in this God-forsaken country. I know Newkirk insisted on my playing because he has this idea that I have to be "one of the boys"—included in everything they do. _

_I don't know why I have such a problem with this. There's nothing I'd like more than to feel "normal," to just blend in with everyone else. When I was at West Raynham, the fellas and I used to have a bull session before a mission, work together as a team, we could practically finish each other's sentences—well, I know Bailey could always finish mine. That boy could read my mind. But here, somehow… though I sometimes feel I know some of these men inside and out, I feel like I have to be separate somehow, like I have to remain one step removed. I'm the only officer here in camp, and I'm supposed to help keep these men safe and mentally together until the Allies storm the gates—which, by the way, looks more and more like it's coming every day. _

_And somehow… maybe if I let myself get too attached… maybe if I get so comfortable that I become "one of the fellas," as Carter would say… maybe I'll forget that command presence I have to have, that edge I need when I'm making decisions that will allow me to send someone on a dangerous mission, even when I know there's a more than even chance that he won't make it back. Maybe if I let myself become one of them… I'll make a mistake that will kill them. Or I'll finally get captured and they'll hang around instead of getting the hell out—and get themselves killed._

_I'd rather be sequestered away from them for the duration of the war, than ever take a chance on something that horrible. I'd rather be alone. It's not worth the risk for a few hours of comradeship. The men need each other—they need to bond, and to look after each other like brothers._

_Anyway, speaking of the boys being mentally glued together, one particular part of the show made me smile. Alan Fisher did a skit with some of the other boys from his barracks. He's a talented young man. I'm glad we didn't lose him that day. He has a lot to share. At least one thing went right in this hole we're forced to call "home."_


	8. 23 January 1945

**Chapter Eight**

**23 January 1945**

When a message from London instructed Papa Bear to meet with a French Underground agent and give him all possible assistance, the men of Stalag 13 knew they would have to ignore the bad weather and resume operations.

With the tree stump entrance to the tunnel system still buried under the recent snow, the operatives decided to use the laundry truck that came in regularly to pick up and deliver for the camp guards. After one brief phone call, the truck suddenly developed "mechanical difficulties" that kept it from arriving at the Stalag until after the last roll call of the night, but it carried extra cargo when it left: Hogan, Le Beau and Newkirk, curled up among the sacks.

The trio was to meet the agent and wait in the woods with him until Oscar Schnitzer came by with the dog truck early the next morning. The veterinarian would pick them up and return them to Stalag 13 as he made the routine exchange of the camp German shepherds. All before the first roll call of the day.

When the laundry truck came to a stop outside the camp, Hogan and his men hopped out and melted into the woods, gathering in the shadow of a large tree. "Okay, now we've got to spread out and find this guy quickly before we all freeze to death or get shot. Everybody clear on the recognition signal and the rendezvous point?"

"_Oui, mon Colonel._ The signal is 'Star light, star bright', and he must answer, 'There are no stars out tonight.'" Le Beau rolled his eyes. "Who makes up these codes anyway?"

"Right, an' we all meet up again about a half mile down the road where that big clump of pine trees is. Piece of cake, gov'nor." Newkirk looked at Le Beau and grinned. "Unless we lose ol' Louis here in a snow bank or something, that is."

Hogan shook his head and smiled. "Save it for later. Let's go find Le Beau's lost countryman." The Colonel headed deeper into the woods, moving carefully as he made his way through the heavy snow.

At five minute intervals, Le Beau and Newkirk moved out as well, taking paths that put them on a parallel course to Hogan. This let them cover more ground, yet stay reasonably close to each other in case of trouble.

Not long after Newkirk started out, machine gun fire tore through the silence of the woods, only to be answered by the bark of a pistol. The two weapons kept up their chatter as the Englishman began making his way toward the firefight as quickly as he could. Newkirk had just caught up with Le Beau when a final burst from the machine gun signaled an end to the battle.

"That sounds like it came from just about where Colonel Hogan ought to be," Newkirk whispered as he and Le Beau crouched behind a tree.

The Frenchman nodded but didn't speak as both men turned toward the sound of someone moving through the underbrush. Le Beau took a tighter grip on his pistol as a few more steps were heard, followed by the noise of something hitting the ground.

The two men traded looks, then Newkirk eased his way out of hiding and crawled through the snow, heading for where the sounds had come from. Shortly after, Newkirk found a man dressed in civilian clothing lying on forest floor, hand clutched to a badly-bleeding chest wound. "Star light, star bright?" Newkirk asked, as he started to examine the man's injuries.

The man's bloody hand came up to grip Newkirk's own as he stammered out his reply. "_Oui... il_ _n'y a… étoiles… ce soir._"

"Easy there, mate. That's good enough for me." The Englishman untangled his hand and pressed it against the Underground agent's chest. He looked back to where Le Beau was hiding, signaling him forward with a wave of his free hand. When Le Beau crouched beside them, Newkirk nodded to the dying agent. "Talk to him, Louis, an' find out as much as you can about his mission. Then ask him if he saw Colonel Hogan… if you get the chance."

Le Beau nodded, leaned down and whispered into his fellow Frenchman's ear. That set off a rapid-fire conversation in French that went on until the agent was overcome with a coughing spasm that shook his entire body.

Newkirk swore under his breath as blood poured out from under the hands he kept pressed to the man's chest. After a few final words, the agent suddenly became very still. The Englishman fumbled at the man's neck, checking for a pulse as Le Beau scrambled away, having lost the battle to control his heaving stomach.

After briefly scrubbing his hands with snow, Newkirk moved away from the body and crouched next to Le Beau. "You okay there, mate?" At the Frenchman's shaky nod, he went on. "Was he able to tell you anything useful?"

"_Oui, _Pierre." Le Beau wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "He was being chased by a _Boche _patrol, and they caught up just as Colonel Hogan had found him. They started shooting and the Colonel stayed back to cover his escape. He also said that he thought the Colonel may have been captured." Le Beau pulled out his pistol and started to stand.

Newkirk reached up and caught Le Beau's arm. "Hang on a minute. Did he say anything about the mission?"

"He gave me most of the important details before he… died." Le Beau nodded toward the body. "We lost a good man there today, and if we do not get moving, we will lose another."

"You're not coming with me, Louis." Newkirk looked the Frenchman in the eyes as he spoke. "You're the only one now who knows what that man died to bring here. It's your job to get back to camp with the information, and it's mine to go after the gov'nor."

Le Beau opened his mouth to protest, and Newkirk cut him off harshly. "Besides, you know what'll happen if the Krauts find out who they've got, especially since we're not in uniform tonight. You _have_ to get back and tell Kinch to be ready to evacuate the camp in case I don't show up with the gov'nor in time for roll call. You know as well as I do that's the way Colonel Hogan would want it."

"_Je comprends, _Pierre_. Bonne chance_." Le Beau nodded, then turned away and headed for the rendezvous point.

Newkirk went back to the Underground agent's body and took a pistol from the dead man's pocket. "I hope your information was bloody well worth the price." He shook his head, then tucked the pistol under his belt at the small of his back before starting down the back trail.

A few minutes later, Newkirk arrived at the scene of the firefight. He circled the area, noting the scattering of spent brass that marked the machine gun positions before stopping to examine a large patch of disturbed snow. He crouched down to pick up an empty cartridge, nodding as he saw that it was .45 caliber and of American manufacture. "Well, gov'nor, it looks like you put up a good fight, don't it?" he whispered to himself as he continued to look around.

The spot of fresh blood on top of the trampled snow gave Newkirk a cold chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Taking a closer look, he realized that he was seeing the tracks of three men going away from the battleground, and to judge from the frequent drag marks in the snow, one of them was being hauled along by force. The Englishman absently stuck the .45 casing into his pocket and started rapidly along the new trail.

Only an innate sense of caution kept the Corporal from running as he followed the tracks in the snow; however, he soon caught up with the men who were leaving the trail. Newkirk heard them before he saw them, pinpointing their position from the sounds of curt German commands and a familiar American voice giving them a rather flippant reply.

Grinning at Hogan's rarely-failing cheekiness, Newkirk moved forward and ducked behind a tree. He picked up a branch and deliberately broke it, tossing the pieces into the underbrush a few feet away. The Germans stopped at once, one of them keeping a tight grip on Hogan as the other swung his machine gun up toward the sound.

Another twig snapping. Snow dropping from a struck branch onto the earth below. One guard moved away, motioning for the other to keep Hogan firmly in his grasp. It wouldn't be hard; the Colonel was sagging a bit, grimacing in obvious pain as blood oozed out through a hole in the left sleeve of his dark shirt.

The shot came so fast that it was almost impossible to see what direction it had come from. Suddenly the guard who had begun to scan the perimeter of the woods was lying on his back on the ground, his body twitching as again the snow started to absorb the blood of another victim of the war. The remaining guard jerked Hogan further into the clearing, shoving the barrel of his gun against the wounded man and whirling around with him to find the hidden assassin. "_Herausgekommen_!" he shouted. Only silence answered him. He pulled Hogan harder, pushing him onto his knees in the snow and leveling the gun at the back of his head. "_Herausgekommen oder werde ich diesen Mann schießen!_"

By now, the German language was second-nature to the Englishman. But he would have understood the threat even without the words: Come out, or this man would be shot. And this time the guard was so closethe shot wouldn't just wing him. Hogan was leaning forward, braced against his manacled hands, with blood dripping onto the snow from a deep cut on his cheek. Newkirk came into the clearing, hands in the air, his pistol in sight. "_Ich bin hier_!" he shouted. The guard turned quickly, still holding the gun against Hogan. Newkirk looked at his commanding officer and felt his heart lurch. "I'm here," he repeated in English. "Don't shoot him."

Hogan glanced up and groaned aloud when he saw Newkirk tossing his gun into a snowdrift and moving in. "No…" he moaned. "Damn it, you should have gone back!"

The guard watched cautiously as Newkirk squatted next to Hogan in the snow. "What, and let you wander around Germany without me? You Yanks couldn't find your way out of a paper sack without a compass and a road map!"

Hogan shook his head. "They'll go hard on you—you've just _killed_ one of them!" he protested fruitlessly.

"An' it was worth every hit I'll take, sir." He tried to help Hogan to rise. "Come on, gov'nor. You'd better not stay down here in the snow. You'll catch your death of cold." With effort, he pulled Hogan off the ground.

Hogan blinked and put a cuffed hand to his forehead. "Sorry, I'm just a bit… dazed, I think." He shook his head and straightened. "I'm all right now."

"_Schritt weg von ihm_." The guard waved his machine gun to underscore his order for the men to separate. Newkirk glanced at Hogan and nodded, taking a couple of steps away from the Colonel and glaring at the German. The guard kept his gun trained on the Colonel, and, looking at Newkirk, said in perfect English, "You run, he dies."

"Bloody charmin'," Newkirk replied not quite under his breath. "You must have taken English lessons just to say that in that menacing tone you Krauts seem to do so well." He moved away from Hogan, putting his hands behind his head as if to emphasize his surrender.

Hogan exchanged quick glances with the Corporal and waited for the guard to move to within a few inches of the Colonel before considering any plan. The German waved his gun one more time. "_Schnell_!"

Hogan's eyes met the guard's, then suddenly the Colonel swayed and started sinking to the ground with a moan. "_Was ist los_?" the German asked, leaning down toward Hogan. But before the guard could reach him, a knife struck his hand and he dropped his gun, crying out in pain. He turned and saw Newkirk standing smugly a couple of feet away. Then Hogan, resurrected, raised his cuffed hands and swung hard at the guard's face. He followed up by ramming his shoulder and head into the guard's gut, pushing the man off balance and sending himself face first into the snow beside him.

The guard tried desperately to reach for his weapon, which had gone flying when Newkirk's "pencil sharpener" pierced his hand, and which was even further away now that Hogan had crashed into him. But it was all over before it had begun, when Newkirk reached back for the small pistol he had taken from the Underground agent and fired one perfect, deadly shot.

Newkirk kept the gun trained on the man in case he got up unexpectedly, but after only a few seconds it was clear that was not going to happen. He shoved the gun in his pocket and ran to Hogan, who was still lying in the snow, trying to catch his breath. "Colonel 'Ogan!" He put his hands on Hogan's shoulders and tried to sit him up. The whiteness of Hogan's face and the clamminess of his skin scared the Englishman.

Hogan nodded vaguely. "I'm all right," he said, still drawing in panting breaths. "Just… need to rest a minute." He looked over at the guard. "Your gun…"

Newkirk shrugged and offered Hogan a small grin. "Well, he only needed to think I had the _one_, now, didn't he?" he asked. Hogan shook his head and smiled tiredly. "Which of these beauties has the keys to the handcuffs?" Hogan gestured to the guard beside them. Newkirk got up and started digging through the man's pockets. "Wouldn't do for Klink to see you in someone else's jewelry, would it?" He quickly found the keys and released Hogan from the restraints. Hogan nodded his thanks, worn out, and Newkirk laid a reassuring hand on the Colonel's back. "Let's get this arm wrapped up." He looked around for something he could use to tie off Hogan's wound, and decided on the scarf he found around the dead man's neck and a large kerchief he carried in his own pocket.

Hogan watched the ministrations offered by Newkirk, tensing when the stinging brought tears to his eyes. He tried to change the subject to distract himself. "That was pretty reckless, Newkirk," he said, not accusing or angry. "You should have gone back."

Newkirk paused in his work. "Would _you_ have, gov'nor?"

Hogan shook his head carefully. "No." He laughed softly. "It looks like you had it all planned out. That knife you always carry behind your back, the extra gun…"

"I did." Newkirk smiled and resumed his work. Hogan looked at him questioningly. "Louis's gone back to camp with the information from Star Bright. We had to make sure it got there. But I knew if the Gestapo got hold of you, it would be bad news for you _and_ for the operation, and then _everyone_ would be in trouble." He stopped. "To tell you the truth, when I saw you kneeling in the snow I just wanted to rush right in, guns blazing."

"But that would have meant we _both _got killed," Hogan finished for him, flinching at the final tightening of the makeshift dressing.

Newkirk nodded. "So I waited."

"And planned. You had to think of everyone."

"I guess I did at that." Newkirk nudged Hogan lightly and added, "And you got yourself a pretty good hit in, as well. I didn't think you would do that."

Hogan shrugged. "I knew I was going to hit him if I could, but I didn't expect to tackle him." He shook his head. "It felt good."

Newkirk laughed. "So we've both learned a bit about what it's like on the other side of the fence, I guess."

"I guess," Hogan agreed. He sighed and looked at the lifeless body beside him. More death. More killing. When would it be over? Hogan suddenly felt very tired.

Newkirk understood. "Come on," he said softly, "let's go home." The Englishman helped Hogan to stand, then he retrieved his gun and his knife before the pair started the trek back to camp. "Well, there'll sure be plenty to write about in those bloody diaries tonight!" he chuckled.

Hogan shook his head, wiping ineffectively at the cut on his cheek. "You know, Newkirk, I think it's time to burn those things," he said.

Newkirk raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What, you mean get rid of them? Why?"

"Diaries are based on facts, right? If we write down the kind of stuff that happens to us around here, no one will ever believe it!"


End file.
